As the dancing gets wilder, I slip outside for a smoke. Under a bare bulb, by a rank and fermenting wheelie bin, I light up, longing to take off my fancy shoes.
He comes after me as I knew he would. I hand him my ciggie, lipstick-marked, and he takes a long pull.
“That kind of day?” I ask.
“You could say that.”
He hands the ciggie back.
“Bit of a blur to be honest.”
“Your mum looks happy.”
“As a pig in shit.”
“Women and weddings, eh? Who can explain it?”
He looks away, towards the car park.
Smoke so deep in my lungs it burns.
“No. Not me.”
He turns to go inside, back to his waiting bride, then pauses.
“Next week? Usual place?”
I drop the ciggie onto the wet concrete where it flares and dies. I nod.
“I’ll be there.”