THURSDAY: The Dance of the Split Trousers


Copyright is held by the author.

A WEDDING in London for us was like adventuring to the moon in a Primark rocket, not a NASA one. Our excitement usually was trying a different lager at the Greville Arms. Matt had never returned to Brum since falling for Charlene, but he had invited us out of duty.

Sheepishly emerging from Victoria Coach Station like escaped toddlers from a nursery, I saw a gorgeous girl approaching. I dwelled on what to say, but she abruptly demanded, “Give me my case.

“Yours is just like mine?” I said, laughing, just as I noticed a teddy bear label on it.

“My dress cost £3000. Good job someone is awake,” she raged, forcing the case from my hands.

Arriving at St Paul’s Youth Hostel, we chose the budget-shared dorm. It felt like walking on eggshells getting ready at dawn. Simon bent down to tie his laces. Amidst the silence, a ripping sound pierced the air, like the curtain ripping in the Holy Temple. Simon whispered, “I think I have split my trousers.”

“You have,” I spluttered. My eyes met Nick’s and we both cracked up laughing. Dashing into St Paul’s Square, I told Simon, “Don’t worry, there are loads of shops in London.” However, I didn’t know his suit was purple and pink stripes.

Nick approached a sales assistant in River Island and blurted, “He had an accident.” Trying to appear sympathetic, but looking aghast, the lady dashed off even faster than me leaving work at five.

Simon emerged from the fitting room, waddling like a severely constipated penguin. The tight grey trousers clashed vividly with his jacket. “I would try something a bit bigger,” I suggested. The second time Simon picked trousers even wider than the goal at St Andrew’s. Glancing casually at my watch, I yelled, “Crap, guys, we are cutting it fine. We have better go and fast.”

Arriving at the Church in Poplar just in time, Matt smirked, “Last minute like usual?” Handing over our presents, a look of panic spread across Simon’s face. Pulling the ripped trousers out of a bag, Matt snapped, “Really, guys?”

Tiptoeing over to the back pews, the service passed swimmingly with us doing nothing. Arriving at the reception party, Nick frowned when he noticed two name cards on our table. “Giselle and Camila, who the hell are they?” he moaned.

Two immaculately dressed girls, wearing luxurious designer dresses, in the tallest high heels I had ever seen, waltzed over. They exuded an air of importance. Casually leaning against the table, facing Simon, the pretty, brunette called Giselle broke the silence by playfully asking, “My dress is going to get creased. Would you kindly push the table back for me?”

Simon shoved the table back, but carelessly pushed Nick against the wall. Unable to hold a fart in from his full English breakfast, he let rip over a scented candle.  “Crap, my bum is on fire,” Nick yelped. With his buttocks flaming, he ran around possessed. Fleeing, he jumped into the Thames and dared not return.

“I have never seen such a calamity unfold before my eyes,” the blond girl called Camila exclaimed.

Recognizing Camila from somewhere, I boldly asserted, “I think I know you.”

“You stole my suitcase at Victoria,” Camila snarled.

This awkwardness was soon lost with wine. As the dance music started, Camila was the first to make a move, asking Simon, “Don’t be shy, no one minds how good you are.”

“It’s OK,” Simon replied dismissively.

Camila beamed, “OK is great. Most of my partners can’t even do the Foxtrot,” as she pulled him onto the dance floor. “Put your other hand behind my shoulder,” she demanded.

Simon spluttered, “I can’t.”

“Come on, Dancing Queen is starting,” Camila snapped.

Meanwhile, smiling lustfully, Giselle placed her hand on my thigh. “I am the lucky one left with you,” she whispered as her face edged up against mine. “Relax, drink more wine, let go of yourself,” she insisted as she topped up my glass to the brim. With brown braided hair, red lipstick, and oozing charm, I could not resist Giselle. “Follow me,” she teased flirtatiously as she swaggered up the stairs.

 “I cannot go in the ladies, Giselle,” I whimpered.

“Don’t worry sexy, they are out of order,” Giselle enticed. As I was led into a cubicle, all my inhibitions evaporated.

Meanwhile, on the dance floor, Simon kept his hand religiously on his trousers. “What is your problem? Never touched a woman?” Camila seethed through gritted teeth.

“No,” Simon answered literally.

“Are you ashamed of being with me?” sulked Camila.

No,” Simon replied expressionlessly.

“I give up,” Camila yelled, storming off in a rage.

Feeling a wave of relief, Simon checked the Birmingham City score on his phone, forgetting about his trousers. As they slid down to his ankles, the disco light shone on him, just as Camila glanced back. Camila wailed, “Oh my, he is crazy.

Back upstairs, pinned on the toilet seat, wildly kissing, naked, I realized love was even better than a Birmingham City home win. “This is the best night of my life, Giselle,” I cried in ecstasy.

“The least I would expect,” Giselle yawned. However, my heaven was ruined by Giselle shrieking, “Oh gosh! I can’t believe it.”She ran down the stairs glancing at her phone. I couldn’t get up. A tub of Industrial-strength glue was on the floor. My clothes were just out of reach. I flapped my hands around wildly. “Giselle, help,” I yelled.

Meanwhile, Simon had been thrown out by the ushers. Crying with floods of tears, Camila wailed at Giselle, “I am still in shock.

“Oh my, you poor chick,” Giselle gasped.

 “Look at my makeup, it’s running,” Camila shrieked, I need a mirror.” Hearing the commotion, the bridesmaids followed her upstairs.

I heard their voices getting louder. I held my breath. Entering the toilet, Camila’s face went white. Jittering, I stuttered, “Err, coffee anyone?”


Image of Jonathan Hunter

Jonathan Hunter is a Flash Fiction Writer from Solihull, U.K. He enjoys writing flash fiction that stretches the imagination and pushes boundaries. Jonathan has had pieces published in the Secret Attic Anthologies, Neuro-Logical Magazine, Bombfire Magazine, Corner Bar Magazine, Arasi Magazine, Written Tales Magazine, Trash to Treasure, and on the Free Flash Fiction website. Find him on Twitter @JonTea22

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