Patricia and I are getting married. I gather up bottles of nail polish, pink gloves and lace. We go to the church. Someone glances at my drooping version of my lavender wedding dress. My mother says out of the corner of her mouth, "Well, I bought it from a 63-year-old woman, what do you expect?" She's a little embarrassed. I follow Patricia up the aisle, which is to the left of the audience, which are all seated in an empty swimming pool wearing lace veils. I get to the pulpit and get the microphone. I have an announcement. I tell the audience that we waited for my groom. Three or four minutes after the wedding was supposed to start, I got a telegram telling me he's not coming. "It's o.k.," I say, "enjoy Patricia and Terence's wedding."