A/N: Inspired by the "I Love a Charade" episode and also my first Sex & the
City fanfic. Short.
As the groom kissed the bride and the petals flew, it was easy to tell what we were thinking.
Maybe we're all too cynical.
Maybe there's something more than Manolos, something more than martinis and men. Maybe it's something we're missing; all of us.
Charlotte with her Jane Austen-type fantasies on proper love, a love that doesn't exist in the state of mind called New York City. Charlotte's damaged view on that sort of love now after Trey. Charlotte's half- hopeful, half-pessimistic approach at finding that zsa zsa zsu again. Especially that zsa zsa zsu with a man who talks with his mouth full and has unfortunate allergic reactions to wax.
Miranda with Ralph-Lauren-wearing baby Brady, who clutched that lilac after she'd placed it back on the table. In that simple gesture, it was though she'd set down Steve forever, put some finality to that gray area. It was finally over. So many months of questionable feelings discarded like a wilting flower. It seems, though, that the very young can detect more than we not-so-very-young ever know. He grasped that flower and she knew.
Samantha with her distorted view of life. Samantha who secretly wants more than money, more than just casual sex. Samantha who is masterful at hiding her true feelings. Samantha who was insufferably jealous of those girls because they had something she didn't: Richard. Samantha, who in a fit of resentment, tossed those cantaloupes right through that glass window that shattered like her heart is probably shattered. Samantha wants love; it's so obvious. She wants love more than she wants success or a state-of-the- art vibrator, Manolos or multiple orgasms.
And then there's me. Where do I stand in this cynical foursome? Is my purpose in life only to rhapsodize about our lives day-to-day? Who am I, really? Was my outlook on love embittered by Aidan and Big? I just stand here, watching Charlotte with her mismatched hairy-back Harry, Stanford with his cheese-grater-abs Marcus, and the oh-so-happy albeit oh-so- questionable bride and groom. (He's wearing white; what bridegroom wears a white tuxedo jacket unless he's gay?) Where are my butterflies? Where's my zsa zsa zsu? Do I have a problem with falling in love again? Will I end up an old maid in the mauve-painted rooms of a rest home with a thousand cats and a thousand pairs of old shoes?
There's Burger. He's kind of scruffy in a sexy James Dean sort of way. (Only he's not so skilled at the motorcycle thing.) Butterflies. And as he takes me into his arms, old three-cake-slice Carrie, I overhear Charlotte and hairy-back Harry.
"What do we do now?"
"Just dance."
As the groom kissed the bride and the petals flew, it was easy to tell what we were thinking.
Maybe we're all too cynical.
Maybe there's something more than Manolos, something more than martinis and men. Maybe it's something we're missing; all of us.
Charlotte with her Jane Austen-type fantasies on proper love, a love that doesn't exist in the state of mind called New York City. Charlotte's damaged view on that sort of love now after Trey. Charlotte's half- hopeful, half-pessimistic approach at finding that zsa zsa zsu again. Especially that zsa zsa zsu with a man who talks with his mouth full and has unfortunate allergic reactions to wax.
Miranda with Ralph-Lauren-wearing baby Brady, who clutched that lilac after she'd placed it back on the table. In that simple gesture, it was though she'd set down Steve forever, put some finality to that gray area. It was finally over. So many months of questionable feelings discarded like a wilting flower. It seems, though, that the very young can detect more than we not-so-very-young ever know. He grasped that flower and she knew.
Samantha with her distorted view of life. Samantha who secretly wants more than money, more than just casual sex. Samantha who is masterful at hiding her true feelings. Samantha who was insufferably jealous of those girls because they had something she didn't: Richard. Samantha, who in a fit of resentment, tossed those cantaloupes right through that glass window that shattered like her heart is probably shattered. Samantha wants love; it's so obvious. She wants love more than she wants success or a state-of-the- art vibrator, Manolos or multiple orgasms.
And then there's me. Where do I stand in this cynical foursome? Is my purpose in life only to rhapsodize about our lives day-to-day? Who am I, really? Was my outlook on love embittered by Aidan and Big? I just stand here, watching Charlotte with her mismatched hairy-back Harry, Stanford with his cheese-grater-abs Marcus, and the oh-so-happy albeit oh-so- questionable bride and groom. (He's wearing white; what bridegroom wears a white tuxedo jacket unless he's gay?) Where are my butterflies? Where's my zsa zsa zsu? Do I have a problem with falling in love again? Will I end up an old maid in the mauve-painted rooms of a rest home with a thousand cats and a thousand pairs of old shoes?
There's Burger. He's kind of scruffy in a sexy James Dean sort of way. (Only he's not so skilled at the motorcycle thing.) Butterflies. And as he takes me into his arms, old three-cake-slice Carrie, I overhear Charlotte and hairy-back Harry.
"What do we do now?"
"Just dance."