Reluctantly

You dance with the bridesmaids, all of them somehow ignoring or missing the fact that you can't dance but finally it's time for the bride.

The look she gives you screams of fear. What is she afraid of?

"I'm not going to rub your dick with my butt," she whispers when you walk over to claim her.

"Okay," you say.

"They all think I'm an idiot for marrying Charles because he's twenty years older than me and has been 'grooming me' for the past ten years." She made sarcastic finger-quote-marks around the 'grooming me.'

"Really?" you manage.

"I mean, is it unreasonable for a man to care about his students and want to protect them from the world?"

Well, yeah. If protecting them from the world meant keeping them in a cage, preserving their virginity just so the teacher could have the pleasure of popping it later. Still, you're not hear to argue with her and, from what you can see, your chances of fulfilling her aunt's wishes look pretty remote.

"I'm not here to judge you or him," you say. "Now, how about that dance."

"I've only danced with Charles and with girls. In our church, dancing is not exactly approved of. Charles says it's lascivious."

"Hum."

"Still, I don't want to disappoint my bridesmaids. But no butt-grinding."

"Fair enough."

You notice that the aunt is whispering to the DJ and as the two of you step onto the dance floor, the rocking beat of the current song fades to be replaced by a ballad.

You take her hand and wrap an arm behind her back (you didn't learn much from that dance class Amber insisted you take before your wedding but at least you have that down) and the bride stiffens and shivers.

"Relax," you whisper. "Just pretend you're having fun. Your bridesmaids will cut you more slack if you do."

What you don't tell her is that feedback works both ways. Pretending to have fun actually creates fun. Smiling creates happiness. The human is a complicated organism.

If anything, the bride is a worse dancer than you are... something you didn't think was possible.

"I'm Mike," you say to her after a few seconds of dancing.

"Charlotte."

"Pretty name."

"Thanks. I didn't pick it."

"No, I guess not."

You make conversation, asking about her upbringing (she lives in a small community in Michigan and Charles, the head of a small church spotted her at ten and persuaded her parents to let him home school her), her bridesmaids (as you'd guessed, mostly sisters plus her aunt), and the bachelor party (men have to let their urges out. It's natural and women just have to bear with it). She talks a lot about her aunt who left the community to live in Chicago and who persuaded Charlotte to visit her a couple of times to see another world from the one in small-town Michigan.

All in all, it seems that Charles has groomed her well for himself. But small hints of independence show through from time to time and you understand why her aunt wants something different for her. Marriage to a fifty year-old man is not what Charlotte needs.

Then again, you have problems of your own and you've earned your free drinks. Do you really want to stick your nose into someone else's business?