Up the stairs, breaking through doorways, the dress-up-girls marching brigade swat and kick and strum, limn voices singing tra-la-la, ra-ra-ra, oh-ah-she-wears-a-bra, pointing to the first girl in line, who turns and offers high fives as she takes to the back, happy to trail behind. Impish giggles, piping hot, foaming with conjugal drool, drowning out the oh-so grown-up stemware-clinkers stirring around in the banner-streamed kitchen, our kind-of friends with two-hundred dollar haircuts and camel colored cashmere coats talking of moving up, out, or along.
Girls strut around the center island, twist beside the two-tier stove, each one tweaking to her tippy-tippy-toes, arms stretched out, a perfect line, soon bopping like an accordion file. Bip-bam-boom, rip-ram-room, oh-ah-she-kissed-the-groom, pointing to me and my new bride who joins in the fun, a processional dance, kissing the air, playing an imaginary trumpet with four, not three, gingery valves. And I smile, a gift I offer with ease, as today is the day I sealed the lie, the opposite, really, of ease.
published 25 January 2012