The First Last Minute Detail

It was an afternoon like any other afternoon. That morning the wedding count-down had clicked another tick from six to five. Excitement was oozing from Nicole's pores, and her mind was overflowing with all of the last minute details that needed to be arranged before the big day. Clint was at work, earning a pay check that will soon be deposited into a joint bank account.

Nicole called Clint at work to say good morning--not an uncommon or unappreciated occurrence. They discussed the agenda for the day. She ate breakfast. Nicole called Clint to ask a question of utmost importance, but no one can remember now what that question was. She checked her e-mail inbox and called Clint to ask another question of utmost importance. After attending to the morning menial tasks and after sufficiently waking up, it was time to get to the real business.

The program was the first last minute detail of the day on Nicole's wedding agenda. The task was to add directions to the reception, proof read the text and take it to the friendly neighborhood Kinko's, rather FedEx/Kinko's due to the recent and unfortunate merger, to be printed. Nicole faced the task with more than usual excitement and efficiency. As a staunch perfectionist and procrastinator tasks such as this were sometimes difficult for Nicole to face; however, during the first morning conversation Clint helped to encourage Nicole that it would be wonderful to be able to check the task off of the last minute details list. This encouragement had Nicole feeling very energized.

She began by doing the first thing she always did when proof reading anything--that is, she called her mom into the room. They scoured and scrubbed that list until it shown bright and shiny as a new silver tea kettle. The thought of having polished up a now perfect program was almost intoxicating.

But, suddenly, Nicole's mom pointed out the names printed under "The Wedding Party" section.
"Do you want to use proper names or the names the people normally go by?"

Nicole was stumped. She and Clint had created the list together, but had they really thought about those names? Had they really considered the difference of statement rendered by proper names versus casual names? Had they done something so base--so un-Presbyterian--as to have simply gone with their natural instinct?

This task was far too great. It was a task of opinion more than mere editorial changes. It was a matter to be considered enormous and grave, considering it was something that was not planned to occur--by neither of the two women involved. It came of nowhere; thus, it was of epic, sinkhole-ian, gas-pipe-cracking, substance. Emergency contacts were to be utilized.

Clint failed to answer, he was on lunch break eating a Quizno's sandwhich of epic, sinkhole-ian, gas-pipe-cracking, substance. Emegency contacts were downed.

He called back soon thereafter.

Nicole, all too briefly, explained the situation and asked if Clint wanted his parents' names to be their full names or thier common names. Clint's answer seemed to indicate that he didn't really care, so Nicole inquired further.

Clint responded quickly to this further, seemingly repetitive inquiry feeling as though it was the day that Nicole had decided to ask Clint questions but not listen to answers. Some sort of twisted game. He responded stiffly.

"I don't know what my parents would like more, and I can't call them right now, so you will have to do it."

Clint figured she couldn't manage to not hear that answer.

Nicole got up from her chair to exit the room, for she knew that this was going to become a conversation about more than just programs and did not wish to have this new conversation with her mother as audience.

"I'm not asking what you think your parents would like, I'm asking you what you think about it."

Clint was somewhat perplexed by this statement. Having personally typed the names out just the day before while Nicole looked over his shoulder, Clint figured that it would be understood that what was there on the paper was what he thought about the matter. It was word processing. It is thought on paper. It is the inspired word--a Dead Sea Scroll equivalent to the testament of Clint's thoughts incarnate about the spelling of names on the wedding program. Clint wondered what she could possibly intend in questioning what he thought about it.

So, he told Nicole to leave it like it was.

If Nicole indeed had been playing a game wasn't going to listen even to only one of Clint's answers that day, this was the one, as the program and concern toward it had from her departed questions, answers, and statements ago.

"Why were you being so mean to me."

Fortunately, phrases such as this from his fiancé's mouth tend to short-circuit every last one of the Purkinje fibers of Clint's heart. The automatic remorse and guilt kicked in. This is good. However, the automatic response also kicked in. This is still good, but not yet great. It is that shocking numb that stupifies a person, making them feel bad but not yet compelling them to the custom-fit, thoroughly-processed course of action.

"I felt like you weren't listening to me. I'm sorry."

'I forgive you' were the words that passed through Nicole's lips, but all she could think about was how much her feelings were hurt when Clint was short with her. She couldn't figure out what she did wrong or if she had even done something wrong. She began to cry.

"What's wrong."

"That really hurt my feelings."

Nicole was starting to wonder if they could really finish this conversation with Clint at work.

"Okay."

Nicole was anything but. However, she, nonetheless, signaled the beginning of the ending to the conversation. Clint sat with Nicole on the phone for a minute or two more pathetically striving to initiate some small talk, while the guilt and conviction that had kicked in earlier were still playing marinade to his heart.

The energy that was oozing from her pores only minutes before was blown cool and dry from Nicole. She laid on the bed as still as a forgetten jigsaw puzzle. Even if she desired to move a limb, there was the risk of it triggering further gentle sobbing.

An eternal minute or two passed.

She called Clint back.

Clint was near the phone, expecting this.

He again asked what was wrong in a calmer tone than earlier, having had even just a couple minutes for conviction to re-construct a large portion of his mind and slowly increased the wattage to his heart.

"It seems like sometimes--if you think I'm not listening to you--you kind of feel like you have the right to be short with me."

Clint's tone rapidly changed from passively apologetic to actively seeking forgiveness.

"I don't think that I think that."

Clint paused in thought.

"That would be a very bad way to think, and I don't want to think that."

Nicole appreciated everything about that statement. She appreciated Clint's tone, she appreciated his patience, she appreciated his careful construction of sentences that would be reassure and comfort her. And she was able to take the programs to be printed that very same day.