Written on 17 March 2019
Gretchin
Pete's phone is going straight to voicemail. I can't figure out if that's ominous or not. Idiot probably got sick of me calling. These sausages are depressing as shit. All shrivelled and lukewarm. Everybody knows that cocktails sausages should either be very warm or very cold, not this weird sweaty mess. Here comes Tim. That's a grimace and a half. I could nip to the toilet. It's probably a bit late.
“Congratulations!”
“Thanks very much.”
“Seriously, what a beautiful ceremony. You both look amazing. Wow.”
“Thanks. Where's Pete?”
Arthur snorts. A man so proud of his ability to drink he has to boast about it no matter what the situation.
“Couldn't handle the pregame, could he.”
Tim looks like he wants to hit Arthur. Alice leads him away, whacking him over the shoulder with her clutch bag.
“I'm really sorry. He's a fucking idiot.”
“He's alright.”
“No, I mean Pete. He got too drunk. We couldn't wake him up.”
“Right.”
He looks so sad.
“It was a really nice service. And I promise we'll make it up to you.”
We'll? More like he'll. I'll make him buy Tim and Katie a fucking holiday. Tim walks away to talk to a relative. Katy is on the other side of the lawn chatting to some douchebag wearing a bloody morning suit. Neither of them look particularly happy. But, shit, at least they both showed up.