Postcard Fiction: What the Best Man Wins

The thick smell slid deep inside me, stirring up trouble. I never woulda guessed a bowl of soup could make me hate my best friend, but the longer Jim took with that damned speech, the hollower and sicker I felt. Every gurgle of my stomach made me more sure this so-called toast was just Jim’s way of keeping me from what he knew would be my first meal of the day. He's never been long-winded, but he loves to be in control, right down to last night's bachelor party I said I didn't want. Now he was holding me for a little bit longer, every new joke and old story telling me that no new wife could keep me from following his lead. I looked up at him standing beside me and coulda swore I saw him wink just before he started into some new bit about what happens when a man looses his independence to a woman. Always the agreeable one, I turned my back on my bride and, with a raise of my glass, retched a symbol of my freedom onto my best man’s best pants.

An earlier version of What the Best Man Wins appeared on the now-defunct website LitBits.ca

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