Half Blood Wedding Crashers

A juicy little nugget it was. There we were standing before the entry to the ballroom of the community center. The lights adorned the entrance as if more illumination was necessary as a show of support to our arrival. We were striking, even from a strangers perspective we looked put together. Lipstick etched softly, my bangs perfectly; hovering just enough to frame my swampy green eyes, hers blue with still that sadness in them from the day he left when she was five. We did it, we were there. Now we just had to get ourselves to make the debut, or slyly cling to the outer wall unnoticed. We had decided to play it by ear. I mean, it’s not as if we were there to steal anyone’s limelight. It’s just the opportunity presented itself and weddings are the best for crashing since neither party has met the other’s family so going unnoticed is easier than being a wallflower at a high school prom. And if first impressions mean anything what better way to be presented than at a gathering of this enormity where the caliber of dress makes people glow in their crisp pressed suits and filmy new summer dresses. I stood studying the almost awkwardly large handle of the door, hoping we would not soon regret our decision to crash the event. I mean, I was no stranger to successfully crashing a wedding, but I was no longer twenty and I was stone sober. Still somehow I managed to convince my sister that my grandfather had willingly extracted this information, the opportunity of the century. Like no other the big reveal was about to be our own live reality show, to “out” our very existence on this earth. Here we go….. can of worms or not if the fish are biting….. It would simply be a practice in professing our dignity. Hey look at us, before your think you understand the life you are about to enter and the family that surrounds you, I just want to meet you. I have the very same evil green eyes as our father. Surprise, hi? I just want you not to know who I am, but THAT I am, and I don’t deserve to hide my ties.

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