"and that was hips don't lie, which is, oddly enough, the grooms favorite song."
a single cheer is heard in the back. the groom, drunk, holds up a half empty beer bottle that sloshes over the side onto his stained tuxedo.
"that was a joke," the singer continues, "for the other half of you."
even far away, with the lights that are half off (and at this point, you doubt its ambience and more the shoddy electric bill wasn't paid at this place) as the chandelier swings: left, right, left, right-a hail mary it doesn't fall on anyone and this isn't known as a wedding and a funeral- it's easy to see him.
the singer looks nervous. holds onto the microphone stand with shaky hands stained yellow from nicotine you can see halfway across the floor. the stand is an obvious life boat for him; leaves sweaty handprints on it after his hand is moved (how his hands keep going to his eyes, as if he's pushing an imaginary pair of glasses up his face, even though he wears none currently)
"anyways uh-" his eyes dart around, like he's waiting for something to take him out, "this will be our last song before the food-"
more cheers. more than he's gotten the entire set erupts.
"Anyways, this is my favorite song so-enjoy." he takes a step back from the microphone, strums, steps back: "or not."
no one's on the dance floor. people linger on the outskirts of it, like they're waiting to be pushed in, a drunken bet, but no one takes the plunge.
"jesus." you snort across the floor. Annie, your best friend is at your elbow, "at this point we should just pull the plug. this has to be abuse at this point."
annie snorts over the rim of her cup: "i don't know," she shrugs, her finger traces over the rim of a lipstick stained cup, "i think it's kind of cute, how nervous he is."
you fake gag, an eye roll: "it was cute for maybe the first song. And then he fucked up the words to California Girls and frankly, i can't forgive that."
"Oh please," Annie snorts, "this is like your fourth grade recital-"
"one, two-"
the drums hit immediately after and he begins, his lips pressed hard against the microphone, eyes shut in an attempt to forget this place:
"wouldn't it be nice if we were older-"
"shut the fuck up," you gasp, "did you tell him to play this?!"
"it's a wedding," she rolls her eyes, "he was like, contractually obligated to play this at some point-"
"hold my drink."
"No!" annie protests, looks at the empty floor, "we can't do-"
you don't listen. instead, the cup is pushed into her chest and the dress is held up in your fist, a hand raised above your head as you ignore a vacant floor.
"Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray-"
finally nearing the end of the song, the end of this nightmare, where he can leave, he pops open one eye. he's grateful he went without his glasses; seeing the world fuzzy and blurry around the edges makes it harder to make people out, don't really exist to him
except for a second. one person exists. middle of the dance floor, not caring how empty it is-
suddenly, he's not rushing through the words. they have to be perfect, have to be right, just for-
the song ends too quick. the bride comes on stage. a hand on hasan's shoulder as she thanks them, slurring, half heartedly-hasan doesn't care, has to get off the stage-
"Will."
he jumps. his bow tie is undone around his neck and his hair is sweaty as it stands up in the back:
"dude-" will begins but hasan cuts him off, his hand still on his shoulder-
"the person on the floor. during the last song?" he drops his voice, licks his lips, "were they hot? do i have a chance?"
he rolls his eyes: "isn't the first rule of being a wedding singer to not fall for wedding guests?"
"it's a yes or no, dick."
will fumbles with his blazer, pulls hasans pair of glasses out from the breast pocket:
"go get them."
the only good part of being a wedding singer is the free alcohol. after two shots the world spins loosely but he feels semi confident, plays with the sides of his glasses in his hand as he, half blind, tries to find the only face he wants in the crowd.
you aren't hard to spot, to your own credit. the bridesmaids dresses are a sin, some tacky orange color that couldn't be saved no matter what, and your hair, frizzy from dancing and the humidity of bodies around you doesn't help.
hasan takes the final gulp of liquid confidence and, hands still nervously on his glasses, too afraid to shove them on his face, makes his way to you before he does something dumb, like come to his senses
"No," Annie argues with you, "because having a Pitbull song would be dumb-"
"excuse you," you snort, "that's mister worldwide, to you-"
"oh fuck off-"
"hey."
hasan gets the word out before he can stop himself. wishes he came up with something smarter, something that would make him stand out to you as much as you did to him-
"hey," he tries again, "figured i'd meet my number one fan."
you laugh and hasan has to stop himself from thinking how he'd never get sick of hearing that for the rest of his life-
this close, it's easier to see him. see past the nicotine stained skin and the nervous ticks-replaced by a constellation of freckles you want to memorize, a mop of unruly curly hair
you hope your voice doesn't come out as nervous as it feels.
"it was sad to see you crashing and burning out there, is all."
he snorts: "and you waited until the last song to save me?"
"i was going to sooner but you fucked up California Girls and i don't think i can forgive you for that."
"yeah?" he giggles, a step closer to you and you can practically feel his body heat on you: "well, i think i can make up for that."
"is it a public apology?"
"i was thinking more like a dance," he says, "and an encore of your song."
his hands still play with his glasses and even though it feels more vulnerable than you'd like, seeing him like this, so nervous, you're ready for his before you can stop yourself.
"here."
you open the glasses up, watch as his shoulders slump in an effort to not tower over you, letting you push the oversized glasses up his face.
you give him a second to adjust. pushes his glasses further up his face, looks up-
"better?"
you're more beautiful than he thought. far out of his league, more scary without the blur around the edges-
"much." he says, "so that dance?"
his hand wraps around yours before you can even get the yes out.
