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dream.20051008: gamers, weddings

by Rob Friesel

My youngest brother and his girlfriend. A and I have them over to our place. We’re living down the street from my folks for some reason. There’s a big wedding shindig going down at their place. Very multi-day. Very heavy shit. My brother and his girlfriend are staying with A and I during the first day or so of festivities. Where none of us are required to be present nor do we wish to be present.

My brother’s girlfriend is cute in a nerdy late-teens sort of way. She’s as-if-not-more into console games than my brother is. She whoops his ass at Wipeout XL twelve rounds in a row. I show them both this sci-fi/fantasy MMORPG that I’d gotten hooked on and where (approximately) I’m at in the campaign. They’re both embarrassed for me.

Next day comes and we’re due at my parents’ house for this wedding. It’s not the marriage of a family member. Someone close to my folks though. A long time co-worker perhaps? Someone I know by name but have never met. There are many Puerto Rican women at the house dressed in white satin dresses drinking rum out of silver flasks. They’re associated with the bride. (The bride is missing, interestingly enough.) A lot of them are hitting on me and I can’t help but feel flattered. I spend more time with them than I’m supposed to. My dad scolds me not because I’m easily swayed by their charms but because I have duties to the ceremony and the party the ensues around it.

The house is theirs but far bigger in its proportions.

Things are getting heated and intense. There’s a lot of discussion about this missing bride. Night is quickly falling and the ceremony hasn’t taken place. Not as planned anyway. There was no aisle walking or public exchange of rings. Apparently a great deal of things took place rather closed-doored, more so than expect at least. The party is going full swing now whether folks want it to or not. I’m sent around back and down the deck stairs to the hot tub for some reason. (There’s a hot tub?) My own wedding ring catches somehow on a splinter at the beginning of the railing. The splinter splits the railing and the whole run down the stairs, the wood splits more and more, etching deep scratches into the silver.

At the bottom of the stairs, I’m crushed.

About Rob Friesel

Software engineer by day, science fiction writer by night; weekend homebrewer. Author of The PhantomJS Cookbook and a short story in Please Do Not Remove. View all posts by Rob Friesel →

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