Let's meet the Wedding Party

Your overnight bag slung over your shoulder—your suit bag is still in the car—you make your way into the yard. You imagine that Sara’s family had begun a few hours ago, filling the space like ants making a new colony—especially Sara’s father, who is early to everything and tends to make bounding, energetic movement as soon as he unfolds himself out of his car. James’s side provides all staging: the white folding chairs from someplace, the wood painted black for the wedding platform from someplace else, the garden implements from his family’s vacation home. Sara’s family, in this division, is the labor.

The prep work appears to be of secondary importance now. Separate groups linger to talk around the parts of the back garden. Out of sight you can hear the giggles and cheerful shouts of children playing, presumably in some back area. Near the dais you see Sara’s father, several men in their 20s who you don’t know, and finally Carrie and Jamie. Carrie’s a carpenter and Jamie went to art school, so both are handy. You can see Carrie’s muscles flex as she and Sara’s dad assemble the small structure, her hands made cartoonish by work gloves. Carrie’s working in a dark-grey, high-cut tank top. It’s clear she has no bra underneath, because the sides of her breasts are visible as she moves, but she’s never in danger of exposing more. Jamie is in a work shirt and grey shorts. She has a nose ring and long hair with subtle waves, like a surfer’s. When he sees you, Sara’s dad gestures a hello with the screw gun he’s holding.

Off to one side you see Liz, divested of the lawyer’s formal wear that you’re used to. Instead she has gone farmer: cutoff jean shorts with a string fringe tickling her thighs, Western shirt with pearl snaps, red bandana tied around her neck, a straw hat.She is talking to several young men—James’s relatives, you assume—with a flirty posture. Liz sees you, waves, and then winks.

Sara is off on the other side, with a clipboard and pen, ticking off items. James stands by, empty-handed, waiting for his instructions. She’s wearing a thin blue smock that drapes over her lithe body, and you know, by sight and experience, that there’s no bra underneath. With Sara and James are several women you don’t know—one punky, wearing black-on-black, and the other a petite woman, her face done-up, with large breasts that look incredible in a low-cut burgundy tank-top—but who you would guess are James’s family. Sara gestures you over to her with a nod of the head, but you assume it’s less of a command than a friendly hello.

The rows of chairs are only half assembled, but in the aisle you see two young women, all youthful physicality, playing and knocking into each other in a way only possible before life drills the touching out of us. They do cartwheels and backbends and simple handsprings, goofing around and mimicking each other’s movements. You know Alex, Sara’s sister—have known her for years. Improbably, Alex is wearing a thin sweatshirt despite the warmth, with a blue tank-top in a slubbed fabric underneath. Where the tank top pinches, and where its color changes, the shape of her swimsuit-style bra emerges from underneath. Alex is barefoot, a pair of flower-pattern Havaianas kicked to the side.

The young woman you don’t know wears casually expensive clothes–black tights, a crop top that falls just so, a strappy sports bra peaking through. She does her gymnastics moves while wearing sunglasses—they never seem to drop or come off her face. This girl—she looks so young, but you remind yourself that she’s a woman—has an exquisite control of her body, in whatever position she puts it in, challenging Alex to keep up. She’s coltish and feminine, but also tomboyish. They are laughing and giggling when Alex sees you and immediately screams your name. She’s excited you’re here and wants you to come visit with her. You wave.