The paper placard was folded in half with blue and white flowers adorning the edges, printed from a hand drawn replica with a mix of print and cursive font Harold S. Beringder, Table Head. The 30-year-old man, tall and better looking than he was five years prior, took his seat after glancing the room, scuffing his rented shoe on the linoleum floor of the rented venue as the rain pitter pattered on the rented roof. Whoever owned these venues must make a killing.
The space was filling steadily, a Saturday evening with all the glamour and grandeur one could expect from the Banks. They were celebrating 10 years of marriage, whatever that could really mean. Supposedly, the deluge outside was a sign of washing away old sins and past mistakes, but surely a cloudless sky would have signified the coming of happy years ahead. People read into things what they want to get out of it.
A voice broke through and interrupted his brooding, “Is this me?”
Harold turned in his chair, seeing, for the first time in many years, Zoe Beam.
“Zoe!” exclaimed Harold, “I heard you may be indulging us with your presence.”
“Very funny,” replied Zoe, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she greeted his overeager hug. “You look well. How long has it been?”
“Five years, yeah? High school reunion.”
“Ah, that’s right. Unbelievable. People move on, I guess.”
“You certainly did.” He followed her social media with a certain zeal, although it waxed and waned when he had fleeting love interests in his own life. Zoe painted herself with an illustrious light, defining her images with an azure blaze, whether she was in Greece, New York City or her own backyard. A theme, Harold surmised, that was popular among her younger peers.
Harold continued, “You’ve managed quite well for yourself. All your posted pictures are of travel.”
“Yeah, well, a single vacation can yield dozens of pictures. Most of the time I’m on my couch eating cheese whizz.”
He snorted back a laugh at that one. They had fallen into an old rhythm better than he could have ever hoped for. Harold and Zoe and had never quite dated, although they danced around it for years. In fact, the main reason was not due to Zoe’s reticence, but Harold’s. He had immense reservations about the situation, due to a single, in his mind insurmountable, reason. Zoe shared the same first name as his mother. Freud would have had a field day with that one and Harold wasn’t one to take unnecessary risks.
“Are you seeing anyone?” asked Zoe.
“Not really. I was seeing my second cousin for a few months but I realized the whole thing was a bit tame for me.”
Zoe was almost startled, then grinned at him. “You always use humor to deflect questions you don’t want to answer.”
“Is that true?” asked Harold, rubbing his chin. “No one’s mentioned it before.”
“You are such a twit.”
“And you?”
“No,” Zoe said, looking away from his gaze. “I can’t be bothered with all that at the moment. Too busy.”
Throughout the rest of the evening, the Banks invited friends and family to give speeches touting their love that they can’t live without. Harold felt obligated, since Mr. Banks wanted him at the Head Table, to say a few words. He rose from his seat and approached the microphone with an air of reluctant duty.
He began with a low voice, “Platitudes, love, banality… oh sorry everyone. I thought this was a poetry reading.” No laughs escaped the crowd, but a few smiles from the lonely guests emerged. Harold continued, with a slow, steady rhythm to his voice, “Anyway, I won’t bore this couple with an extended sermon on how they should appreciate each other. That’s already pretty clear, from this reaffirmation of their commitment to each other. My only suggestion to them, and everyone here, is to avoid being myopic. Keep your hearts in the context of your brains. Don’t rush to judgement. If rejection is what breaks a heart, then acceptance should be what keeps it together.”
Ne nodded his way back to the seat as a smattering of applause rippled around. Zoe declined to say anything. She was never one to give public remarks, but did speak with the Banks for several minutes, catching up and wishing them well. She then circled back to Harold who was watching the couples and friends on the dancefloor.
“That was really nice, what you said.”
“Was it?” asked Harold. “Perhaps I should have prepared a little bit more. But I’m glad you liked it.”
“No, I thought it was perfect. Honestly, I’d rather have listened to you ramble on for a while longer than hear the rest of, what did you call them, ‘platitudes?’ Yeah that’s exactly it.”
Harold gave her a genuine, full-toothed smile at that. “Thanks, Zoe. I’m glad we got to see each other tonight.”
“Me too.”
As the evening drew to a close, Harold finally asked Zoe to dance, which she accepted. They made their way through a number of throwbacks to their high school and college years, with a slower song drawing them into a close embrace. As the band finished, Zoe lightly whispered into his ear, but the sound was drowned by the sound of applause from the guests.
“Say it again?” asked Harold.
“What? Oh, it was nothing.”
“Right, ok.”
The matron of the rented facility then ushered everyone outside so they could see the Banks off. Harold and Zoe stood side by side and clapped with genuine enthusiasm as the couple made their way to a waiting car.
As the crowd dispersed to their own rides, Harold turned to Zoe and said, “It’s still a bit early.”
“Are you kidding? It’s 1 in the morning.”
“Yeah? Wow, I wasn’t even aware.” The champagne had clearly taken an ill effect on Harold’s mind. His eyes were glazed and his speech was slower than it should have been. His nerves, big before the speech, were microscopic now. “Where are you staying?”
She gave him a once over and said, “I live nearby, remember?” Zoe then sighed at the look of slight recollection in his face. “I should be getting back. Text me some time?”
“Zoe, wait,” exclaimed Harold, grabbing her arm gently as she began to walk away.
“Harold, don’t,” said Zoe before he could go on. His eyes went down to his shoes. “Don’t ruin the evening. It was great to see you, but..” she trailed off. “Listen. Just let it be what it is.”
He looked up. “What if that’s not enough for me?”
The rain that had dispersed came quietly back. The stringed lights outside were diminished by the goo. Zoe looked him in the eyes and said, simply, “Good night, Harold.” She glided off.
He was left standing alone, a cliché and a caricature. But as quickly as the pain came over his eyes, it faded away, like the flash of an old camera. Then he texted his mother.