and another angel earns his wings
by not jenny

Knives clinking against champagne flutes. Tinking, like a fairy in a children's movie, tinking. Tink Clink Tink. Toby turning to kiss his wife.

Clink clink Tink, like the end of the world.

She smiles, finishes off her glass of Moet in one gulp. Not the way to drink champagne, not really, but. The Tink Tink Tink. The bubbles tickle her throat on the way down, make her cough. She grabs another glass of a passing tray, orders a Scotch neat from the cute waiter. Never mind that he's not working her table; she needs a drink. A real one.

The band begins to play. A wedding standard.

Josh calls out from his seat, "First dance! First dance!" and Sam leans over to shush him.

Clink clink Dink, like the end of the world. Mini sirens. Dink. Too many alarms sounding at once, and the band covering an old Gershwin song. Her head throbbing. Wishing for spontaneous deafness. Clink. She drinks her scotch too quickly, demands another.

"Tink," goes silver on glass, "clink."

Andi leans over, kisses Toby. He blushes. Shrugs. When she half-growls, "be a man, Toby, dance with your wife," CJ bolts from her seat. Trips on a balloon on her way to the ladies' room.

Andi is seven months pregnant, and Toby stares at her like she's a fucking supermodel. Ice cream and cigars and politics all rolled into one, and CJ's sprawled on the floor near the door. Tapping her feet- tink clink dink- to the music.

In time with Amy's little heels as they move toward her, as she pulls CJ to her feet. Half-carries her to the restroom. And CJ's fingers skip along the hem of Amy's too red too short too everything dress. Lightly skipping. And Amy's breath in short bursts.

Her nails going Tink on the sink.

Tink clink sink.

The taste of champagne and scotch mixing with vodka and red wine. The taste of metal. Of teeth. Their mouths clinking against one another, enamel on enamel, clinking. The room spins.

Fire alarms and ambulances, with Celine Dion singing like the Titanic is sinking. All hands to the fiesta deck, and Amy's skin softer than water. Than glass. And Toby outside, dancing with his Stepford wife, and Josh outside with Sam. Everyone twirling and sloshing and, every so often, a piece of silverware clinking on a wineglass. Laughter. From outside, laughter, but inside. Pressed against the counter, water dripping rhythmically in the sink, Amy sighs. Moans.

"Fuck," and CJ answers, "y-e-s."

Drowning out the sirens, the bells. Another angel gets his wings, and Tinkerbell lives happily ever after. Clap your fucking hands, it's time for another round.

They straighten their dresses, stumble back to the party. Toby is kissing his wife on the dance floor. CJ smiles, orders another scotch.


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