My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "I've never been sure of pants," quipped the old man wearing a green kilt, his fingers collecting the icy condensation of his whiskey glass. "Never been fond of them, either. I like the breeze around my thighs these days. Beats the heat, makes me feel pretty." He went back to drinking his scotch like what he had said was equivalent to talking about the weather, or the latest football match - as if it had been a matter-of-fact statement that everyone needed to be familiar with. The bartender, petite and red-haired and freckled, ducked down under the counter and came back up with a bottle of butterscotch schnapps. Though I assume half the reason she disappeared was so the kilt man couldn't hear her laugh. It was eleven forty-seven PM on a Sunday night, and the tavern was still open for another hour or so. Ainsley, halfway to spending the next morning on the couch with an ice pack against her skull, was finishing her fourth pint of stout

The estimate for the wedding budget was around twenty-five thousand dollars, and we had gotten about twenty thousand of it from our parents so far. Now it was a matter of us saving. I held off on buying the standard six-pack of cider, while she managed to cut back on coffee outings. We cooked more meals at home, we found cheaper alternatives for our dates, and we spent nights in instead of out when we could. We saved five thousand dollars in about six months, which was pretty damn impressive.