You wearily look out across the sea of people, smiling and laughing. Yep, gonna need another drink, you think to yourself. Wedding receptions are the worst, and everyone knows it, yet married people always insist on having them for some reason. Sure, it’s your brother getting married. But that doesn’t make it any less dreadful. Maybe if I slip and fall, I can get out of here sooner, you inwardly opine. It’d at least make the evening more interesting.
Fortunately for you, part way through the reception, your mom says she forgot something back at the house. You jump at the chance to get away, tired of the small talk and questions. It’ll be a brief respite, but a welcome one. So you pull up to the house, only to find that I’m there. Sitting on your doorstep. As I watch you get out of your car, I spread my legs, just enough to make you want to see what’s under my dress, but not enough that you can actually see. Your heartbeat quickens, and you look around to make sure no one else is there, worried that you’ll get caught in the very problems you were trying to avoid by not taking me to the wedding.