I'd Rather Eat Candle Wax

I must be hearing this incorrectly. There is no way this is being said aloud right now. Either that, or I’m dreaming. I have to be dreaming. Pinch me. Someone fucking pinch me. I looked around and down the dimly lit table, candle flame flicker mirroring the palpitations puncturing the insides of my blood vessels, capillary by capillary as each word came out of his stupid fucking almost bewedded mouth. Why did I have to be engaged to a classic over-sharer? Why does he always go too far? The soft light illuminated the horrified faces lining the long, drawn table of loved ones. Thank God we were in a private room at the restaurant, though I am sure the wait staff is already telling the kitchen about the jackass at Table 10.  My Jackass.  Candle wax dripped off the centerpieces melting into the beautiful mahogany tables that had first attracted me to this Italian restaurant. Quaint, and yet modern, I thought, now rolling my eyes at myself. Instead of spending so much time scrutinizing the decor of the restaurant, perhaps you should have talked to Max about what he was going to say during your engagement dinner. Perhaps you should have spent less time agonizing over the shade of red you'd like your nails, and a bit more time training your silly fiance how to give a speech about why he wishes to marry his wife to be.  I caught drips of wax on my fingertips. It didn’t burn, though I would have wanted it to, because it would have at least taken a mili-second away from the embarrassment that gnawed at my insides. What if I ate that candle wax? Would that distract me enough? Could I burn the lining of my stomach and then feel better? Or maybe I could throw up all over the table and make a scene?  I wished more than anything to be slipping between the cracks as the wax did.

“She had a pair of legs that went on forever, gentlemen,” he said eyeing his best man like he “got it” more than any woman could have “gotten it,” before glancing down and smirking. My mother glared at him with a disgust only mothers can convey.  Ugh. I lifted my head from the dripping wax. He looked like a little boy suddenly recalling where he stashed his best candy. And then back up. “I couldn’t stop looking at her.”

It was at this point my father put on his fake smiling, inside ready to attack you face. I could see it forming in the wrinkles and crows’ feet. The larger the smile, the more the anger fester inside him.

“And then….then I go up to her. Well. I guess you could say, I looked up at her. She was tall in those fishnets. High heels.” Oh thank God. John is pulling on his pant leg signaling him to sit down and shut up. John, marry me. Marry me instead of your stupid fucking best friend.