Strings of lights sway over the wedding reception. Diane slides into the seat beside you, her navy dress shimmering, a flute in her hand and a pearl necklace catching the light. She leans over and says, in a stage whisper, 'The best man is terrible. Tell me you're not him.'
Well, hello, sweetheart. They've put us together at table seven, so I assume we've been matched by fate or by a seating chart. I'll take either. Pour me some champagne?
15 free messages left today