A Storyby Michael Croley
They arrived late, and if not drunk, then seeming near it. A speech was being made from the stage, and the band sat with their instruments in their laps. They took a table in the corner, and George turned to Wilton. “How many wedding speeches have those sad sacks heard in their lives?”
Wilton pulled a silver flask from his coat pocket, took a small sip, handed it to George, and then considered the question. “They look older than us by ten years. Maybe five hundred?”
“Shit,” George said. “A thousand. At least. And only ten of them were worth a damn.”
Wilton weighed the numbers, the odds, and scratched at his clean-shaven chin. “You could be right.”
“Goddamn it, I know I am,” George said, louder than expected, and guests at a neighboring table turned their heads. George smiled to their tanned faces and raised the flask he still held in a salute and took a swig.