Fully buttoned.

You slide into your seat late, hoping no one notices.

Everyone does.

Your head turns, scanning the crowd, nodding a few polite hellos as you wait for the show to begin. But what you notice is that everyone’s still sealed up tight, collars choking like they’re about to testify in court.

A few hands tug at their necks, and you start wondering who’ll blink first.

1 button removed.

They said “I do.” While you said, “I can.”

I can take advantage of the changing winds of cocktail hour.

Around you, sweaty men shuffle and make desperate eye contact, each waiting for someone else to break. The code phrase is always the same: “It’s pretty hot out, don’t ya think?”
And that’s when it happens: ties loosen, the first button pops, and suddenly it’s a grassroots movement.

2 buttons.

The gauntlet is over: dinner, dances, and the speeches that start with “Words cannot explain what the bride means to me,” while, of course, using words to do exactly that.

Off goes the second button. On goes the dance floor.

3 buttons.

An hour and a half in, the third button gives way as alcohol wins the night.

You’re feeling hot and boy-o-boy do you have a solution.

4 buttons.

The overachiever emerges. He’s mistaken the reception for a hot yoga class and is shirtless from sternum to navel.

Everyone pretends not to stare, but their eyes betray them. Eventually, whispers take over the dance floor.

“Did you see Donny? He’s pretty drunk, huh?”

You nod and ask,

“What gave you the first clue?”

5 buttons.

The shirt is off, the man is gone, and what’s left of him is folded over a toilet bowl like a discarded towel, throwing his dinner back up.

The shirt watches, relieved to be separated from the man.

5 buttons back up.

The return to the tux rental shop.

They wish you congratulations and say it like they mean it.

But you can’t help but wonder: do they mean it… or are they just happy you forked over two hundred bucks?

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