PIT 4/6: The Wedding Dinner

Points In Time

March 19, 2010

Westlake Village, California

5:41 PM

Still finding it hard to believe that she is ‘really’ here.

Breathing Marsha’s fresh shower scent, the side of his face flat upon Marsha’s right shoulder.

Caressing his face, Marsha Lipensky sensed a soulful love so deep, so strong for this man…

Feeling a soulful love so deep, so strong for this gentle man, that unaware if her words…

“Mitchie, I love you!”

...were but a deeply felt thought or actually spoken aloud.

His right hand now flat upon the hard space above her heart, between Marsha’s naturally spread breasts.

“I love you, too, Marcie.”

A long moment passing…

“Didn’t know if I’d said that loud enough for you to hear.”

“Don’t know if I really heard, but felt it…” three soft pats above her heart “… right here.”

Onto his side now, belly and thighs touching. “I must be getting ‘really’ old.”

Marsha’s hand remaining upon the side of his face, her head turned, faces inches apart. Knowing why he said that, asking anyway. “Why’s that, baby?”

“Your tits, honey…” lifting Marsha’s soft, hanging left breast, kissing it “...I love your tits and…” motioning to the nub of his barely seen penis “...don’t even got a boner.”

“Mitch this…” said seriously “...just might be part of  getting old. Being together like this now, the love I feel for you has nothing to do if you’ve got a boner or not. Nothing to do with sex.” Her arm embracing his shoulder, urging him even closer. “I feel like… I know I’m here with you, but feel like I’m really in a dream that has noting to do with sex but all to do with just…” searching for the word “… ‘being’. Being here with you. Holding you. Loving you! I feel like I’m in some kind of a hypnotic trance that has me in the only place I was ever meant to be… Here, baby. Here with you, and sex…” patting his cheek, reassuring him, letting him know that there will be “...sex is in a different place, but don’t worry, ‘you want to eat my pussy’ and, trust me, ‘I still want t suck your cock’.”

Mitchell heard and understood, and knew at their ages they were on a different humanistic plane that will continue on with quiet emotion, and at times with pure, passionate emotion.

And this is all acceptable and agreeable.

Besides, going back to the early days of their ‘in the eyes

of God’ marriage, worrying about getting, and then maintaining a boner never worked then and now, at his age…?

If I can’t! Well, I’m seventy-six after all, so why worry?

6:03 PM

Quiet… Minutes passing. Marsha as she had been – on her back. Mitchell as he had been – on his left side with hes head nestled between Marsha’s chin and shoulder.

Contented...

Eyes closed...

Dozing…

Breathing in a slumberous, quiet tone.

7:03 PM

All in near the same position: His head upon her shoulder; the side of her face resting upon his head. The one change; his hand no longer lying flat upon her chest as Marsha’s left breast lies cupped within his hand.

So familiar. After all the years. After all the hatred. After

all this time her nude breast held within Mitchell’s hand is so familiar… ‘So’ warmly familiar.

Able to see the clock on the night stand…

“Mitchie!” Shaking his shoulder. “Milt will be here soon.”

His head slipping from her shoulder onto the pillow.

This too, so familiar…

No shock. His eyes opening, no surprise. Marsha’s face above his familiar, ‘so’ warmly familiar.

“Baby…” sitting up “...Milt will be here soon.”

“He’ll wait…” the sight of his naked wife familiar, so ‘warmly’ familiar “... but I’m getting kind of hungry. How’s about you?”

“Me, too, honey. Go ahead! All my stuff still in the other room, so I’ll use the other one.”

Getting from the bed. Standing...

In full daylight. In the openness of this brightly lit room...

Marsha sees the nude body of her seventy-six year old husband… With some wrinkles– quite possibly with less wrinkles than she has. With some flab – hopefully with less flab than she has– with a fully pronounced boner– that at the moment she does not have, but, sensing a flow of heat in her lower region, is looking forward to having later that night.

Noting her looking at ‘him’. Not ashamed. Not embarrassed… “And this…” pointing “...ain’t ‘cause I gotta pee!”

Although he did.

“My, God, I hope not, Mitchie!” Shooing him with the back f her hand. “Go on! I got to figure what I’m wearing tonight.”

7:08 PM

Back in the bedroom, slipping on a pair of shorts…

“Mitch…” entering the room wearing nothing but a bra and panties holding a pair of light blue slacks and a dark blue and white sailor-collar top “...where’s your iron?”

“In that thin cabinet alongside the pantry.”

“Thanks.”

Watching the sway of… My, God… Mitchell thought ...I love that little ass.

7:33 PM

Wearing light blue linen slacks and a darker blue nautical style jumper with a white sailor flap collar having light blue matching piping.

No longer needing a steadying hand while walking the railroad tie steps to the dock, Milt, however, offering his hand to help Marsha onto the slightly rocking boat that, drifting from the dock, was followed by Mitchell.

The aluminium Coffee pot on the forward table along with three coffee mugs.

Sitting alongside Mitchell on the starboard side, the cool evening breeze ruffling the curls of Marsha’s hair.

“Marsha…” navigating the boat into the channel, taking the long way around Westlake Island “...guaranteed you’re going to be the most beautiful bride there tonight.”

Reaching a certain age, complements not easily thrown away. “Thank you.”

“You talked to Audrey?”

Looking at Mitchell. “Of course!”
“So we can expect a little something extra there, huh?”

“ ‘Audrey’? The lady at The Landing?”

“Yeah. She loves preparing weddings.”

“Not too much time to ‘prepare’ too much.”

“Won’t be ‘to much’…” Mitchell said “...but enough. By the way…” adding “...if I didn’t say so before, you look absolutely beautiful.”

Squeezing his bare thigh. “You, too.”

“Care for a little martini, Marcie?”

“I’ll pass on that, right now, Milt.”

“You, Mitch?”

Having an Idea what’s coming with Audrey’s ‘planning’. “No. Not right now… You want me to pour you?”

“Nah. I can wait too.”

Rounding the eastern side of the island, steering towards the rows of public docking and those reserved for the restaurant trade.

Steering to Starboard, making a wide circle as considering the westerly breeze, Milt navigated the buoyant pontoon boat directly into one of the three ‘The Landing’ reserved docks.

Jumping ashore – to keep rocking at a minimum– pulling the boat directly against the dock, Mitchell dropped two half-hitches over the fore and aft dock cleats.

Knowing Audrey would be watching for them, making no attempt to go ashore, Milt motioned Marsha to remain seated.

Looking ashore, having no idea what to expect…

Within moments two servers wearing sharply creased black slacks and white dress shirts with black bow-ties wearing sparkling white jackets, one caring a folding side table and menus, the other a silver tray with a matching ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne along with three champagne flukes.

Coming onto the dock area, approaching Milts boat, hesitating, “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

“You’ve got it!”

Opening the folding side table, setting it alongside the boat’s table, he stood aside as the second server placed the silver tray and ice bucket onto it, then, dramatically popping the cork, slowly poured champagne into each of the three flukes.

Coming forward Milt sat alongside Marsha.

As Marsha and Mitchell had been sitting together, rightfully assuming they were the bride and groom…

In unison, “Congratulations!” the servers said as – their part of this practised ceremony through, leaving the menus and champagne, nodding to Milt, the two left the boat.

“You, two…” Milt said “...I wish you both the very best of luck.”

The crystal ‘clink’ of three flukes could be heard by the servers on their way back to the restaurant.

“Thank you, Milt. Mitch tells me you and he had been best of friends for years, and I’m sorry to see you go.”

Finishing the last of his champagne, reaching to the bottle, topping the other two and refilling his glass.

“I’ve been thinking about that, and– excuse my french, Marsha, but fuck my kids, this…” motioning about, and to the two people sitting on the other side of the table “... is all too beautiful to leave for a place that I won’t even be able to go outside six months a year… ‘Fuck ‘em! I ain’t going!”

“Milt…” reaching across the table, petting his hand “...I speak ‘french’ . So, yeah, ‘fuck ‘em’. If there’s one thing I’ve learned…” taking hold of Mitchell’s hand “...is that good friends…” kissing her husband on the cheek “...and good husbands are hard to find.”

8:13 PM

The sun setting behind the westward mountains as...

The muted sound of of a bugle, sounding as though from far off, playing the ‘Wedding March’ becoming more pronounced as Audrey, wearing a semi-formal gown, and a formally dressed man playing a muted trumpet are descending the steps leading from the restaurant patio to he concrete walkway to…

The sweet, melodic, sound of the trumpet...

The wedding march...

Hearing the music, leaving their meals, people on the outside, approaching the outer fenced boundary of the patio stand watching, and listening as Audrey and the trumpet man, now standing directly before the moored party boat.

Embarrassed, yet proud, taking Mitchell’s hand Marsha stood as...

The last strands of the ‘Wedding March’ seemed to echo from the southern shore of Westlake Lake.

All silent…

The mass of diners from all three restaurants crowding ‘The Landing’s’ patio, stand watching and listening to the beauty...

Silent.

But for the quacking of a mother duck and the trail of her six quacking ducklings gliding by seven yards off shore…

Silent...

The muted strands of the trumpet...

A professional singer in the eighties…

“Oh how we danced on the night we were wed…”

Beverley’s melodic tone bounding within the loving words…

“We vowed our true love…”

A flock of high flying northern geese adding to the chorus…

“...though a word wasn’t said.”

Her heart pounding, her eyes watering, pressing Mitchell’s hand to her chest…

Standing, his arm about her waist, Mitchell’s eyes watering…

The setting sun.

The muted tone of the trumpet.

The heavenly melodic tone of Beverly's voice.

The flock of high flying northern geese.

The gentle clacking of the trailing ducklings.

To those watching. To those listening: Could there ever be a more beautiful setting for the marriage of two elderly people.

However…

Older women on shore wondering about Marsha;s age.

“How old are they?” Whispered a thirty something wife.

“Don’t know.” Whispered her thirty something husband.

Giggling. “Think he can still get ‘it’ up?” whispered the thirty something wife.

As sometimes a man might think something completely other than his wife. Looking at the tall – even from this distance, beautiful, regal appearing older lady, thinking, I sure could! The thirty something husband whispered. “Probably not.”

Beverley's last words fading...

The trumpets last note fading.

Carefully stepping from the boat to the dock, going to Beverly, taking her hands. “Thank you!” Tear trails on both cheeks. “Never…” looking from Beverly to the trumpet man “... ‘Never’ could I even begin to imagine anything this beautiful.”

Next PIT4/7: Chicago & Back