Three parts / Seven parts

The loveliness of weddings is in part due to the audience in attendance, who have woken up that morning to enhance their beauty with trim suits and dresses. There is a signalling selflessness in the way they gather for two people. Everyone sending all of their happiness in one direction. And it lasts for the whole of the afternoon, through the ceremony and into the rest of the meticulously planned afternoon, while light music and energetic hosts help the day along. But then after dinner the speeches come, just after dinner, when people begin to lean back in their chairs, worn out with their contentedness. They slip off their shoes under the table, and they loosen their ties and leave their jackets to hang on the backs of their chairs. It is like taking off an armour of selflessness, where then passed all around are remembrances of the reasons why each person loves the two getting married, why the wedding is the perfect thing to have happened, and on. And almost as if because of everyone's loosening outfits, the speeches slink inside their seams, and their reflections turn upon themselves. And while they listen, fingering the stems of their wine glasses, everyone is wondering to themselves about love, about their love that is kept boxed. A beauty turned to ache, and then sending its meaning into a night covered with a blanket of dance.