Part 7:

I didn't have a home-cooked meal at Cindy and Ted's for the following three months. Cindy told me I was gymnophobic and beyond her matchmaking skills. (I think she meant gamophobic which means a person with a fear of marriage or sexual uniting. Gymnophobia is a fear of being naked which, I'd imagine, makes bathing rather difficult.)

Since I am tall and own a black suit, I had been once again drafted into be an usher and book monitor, that time at Arnie and Fran's wedding. I hadn't expected to see Lynn rolling in but there she was. "I didn't know you were in town. You look lovely," I smiled.
"You're not so bad yourself. Have you lost weight?"
"A vest is not unlike a girdle," I admitted. "Here," I lowered the book to her lap, "sign in please. According to the bride, everyone has to autograph this volume, even if I have to put them into an arm lock."
"How romantic," she signed her name. "Do me a favor. When Fran throws the bouquet, make sure I'm in the next state."
"It's a deal," I returned the book to the podium. "There's going to be quite a reception afterwards with enough seafood, smoked meats, cheeses and sweets to keep my wisecracking mouth full for hours."
Lynn sighed, "Sounds like heaven to me. Because I'm always on the road, everything I eat is fast food. Considering some of that slop, the Styrofoam cartons actually improve the food's flavor. Will there be liquor?"
"To excess. What kind of wedding reception would it be without one relative getting sloshed and becoming a scandal? Remember, black sheep are made, not born. There'll also be dancing....." I bit my tongue. "Sorry."
Lynn smiled, "I'd love to dance. Of course, you'll have to sit in my lap or I'll sit in yours."
"At least I won't step on your toes."
Lynn shrugged, "Who cares? They're Fiberglas."
I couldn't believe my eyes when a conservatively dressed Bunny entered the building. "Mark!" she gave me a peck on the cheek.
"Uh, sign in. Which side of the aisle? The bride's or the groom's?"
"Gee, I don't know," Bunny glanced into the chapel. "I see a lot of familiar faces on both sides."
For once in my life I kept my mouth shut even though a number of racy thoughts did zip through my brain. I decided to palm Bunny off on the other usher.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Bunny dug in her purse. "I had some business cards printed. Just in case." She threw me a wink as handed me a few. The other usher then properly escorted her inside.
"Wow!" I examined one of the cards.
"What?" Lynn inquired.
"I've never seen the words 'striptease artist' or 'prostitute' embossed on a business card before."
"You're lying!" Lynn accused.
I handed her one of the cards.
"You're not lying. Just how well do you know that Bunny rabbit anyway?"
"Not Biblically. Besides, why pay for sex when one can have a tawdry affair for free?" An unsettling idea crossed my mind. "If I gave her card to somebody, would that make me a pimp?"
"Considering that you wouldn't earn a dime from the deal and that you drive a Volkswagen, I think you're safe." Lynn shoved the business card down the front of her gown.
"You're keeping that?"
"I have a number of male clients. I like to keep them happy."
"Damn, but you're mercenary." I smirked. "I like that in a woman."
Cindy's voice called out, "There you two are!"
I quickly crammed the remaining cards into my jacket pocket.
Cindy was all smiles when she approached. "Lynn, I love your dress. How long will you be in town?"
"Four or five days," she grinned up at me.
"Wonderful!" Cindy beamed. "I'm having a dinner party tomorrow and you and Mark are invited. I'm have some people there you two just have to meet. See you later! Bye!"
Alone again in the back of the chapel, Lynn and I moaned in unison.
My head dropped limply down, my chin resting on my chest. "She did it to us again."
"The dreaded home-cooked meal," Lynn moaned.

As I pushed Lynn into the chapel, a brilliant idea came to mind. The next day, I called in a favor from a friend who worked at the local newspaper. He made up a special insert for Cindy and Ted's morning paper. On it were fake obituaries of Lynn and myself. (My friend had a blast 'killing' me off in the most gruesome automobile accident he could dream up.) Alas, it didn't work. When it comes to dodging a friend with the Matchmaking Bug, nothing ever does.

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