Hot Fudge 10: Wedding Day

Chicago, Illinois

December 17. 1955

“Mitchie, come on, honey, ” kissing him on the cheek, “I’ve got to get to the beauty shop!”

“Yeah, sure, baby. Where’s it again?”

“On Western off  Peterson.”

                                                      ***

“You got a picture of your fiancé?” Standing behind the chair, combing her out, “I want to show it to her,” nodding her head towards a pretty, dark-haired young woman two stations down.

“Do I have a picture?” Looking at the beautician’s reflection in the mirror, “Are you kidding?” Opening the purse on her lap, taking her wallet out, thumbing through some pictures, she handed Erma a snapshot of Mitchell taken the summer before.

Looking at it a moment, walking to the young woman, “Take a look at this guy,” Erma said, handing the picture over the woman’s shoulder.

Taking the picture, holding it in front of her face, her eyes opening widely, swallowing, chewing nervously on her lower lip, the young woman looked at the photo for what must have been at least thirty seconds, then, looking up, she looked at the other woman’s reflection in the long mirror.

Waiting, watching in the mirror to see the usual reaction to Mitchell’s looks, she was baffled at the play of emotions she saw on the woman’s face.

Looking into the reflected image of the others’ eyes, the two women silently studied each other.

“He’s, uh…” Searching for the right words, seemingly unnerved, “Your boyfriend’s…”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she corrected, “he’s my fiancé; we’re being married tonight.”

“Tonight…” Blinking her eyes several times, quiet a long moment, “You and Mitchell are being married…” she questioned softly, “tonight?”

Mitchell? Sitting a bit straighter, “Yes, we are, tonight.” Watching closely, “Do you know Mitchell?”

Taking a few seconds to speak, “Yes,” she said faintly, “we used to know each other.” Turning her face downward, somewhat away from the other’s questioning gaze, “Tell him,” the young woman said haltingly, “that…” swallowing again, her lower lip quivering, “Please tell Mitchell that Susan Friedman wishes him… both of you… good luck.”

At any time you can turn a corner, or cross a street to get a hot fudge sundae and "bam", your life is changed forever.

I sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed the “Hot Fudge” series.

The “Hot fudge” series are very modified excerpts from my, “coming of age”,  itsy-bitsy, 736 page, near 300,000 word novel, “Becoming".

"Becoming" opens in Spring of 1939 as  five year Mitchell is waiting for the lights to change on a busy street on the west side of Chicago, and concludes in Spring of 1956 in Brighton Beach, New York when, sitting in his car, Mitchell, now age twenty-two, is waiting for the lights to change.

If you’re interested in connecting the dots, I would be more than happy to get a signed copy to you.

 Thank you for taking the time to read “Hot Fudge.”

                                                            Mark