We were, in fact, at Trattoria Aroma having dinner at the end of the bar that night. Here is the problem: My friend and I cannot figure out what we were wearing that night and are at each other's throats claiming the other was wearing the green sweater. I think he's full of shit. Either way, we have to meet, and considering you went through the trouble of initiating a misconnect, please suggest a situation that is most comfortable to you.

You began the evening in a church so breathtaking that you snuck back in after the ceremony to take pictures. Hundreds of years old, the grey stone chapel seemed to breath cool air and whisper "hush." The stained glass window scenes in colors so bold that the memory of them knocks you backward - blues plucked from the sky and sea, yellows plied from the sun itself, greens peeled from somewhere in a forest never touched by man and reds borrowed from the very blood they depicted. You feel as if you are stealing by taking pictures of beauty that, once taken from their proper context, will seem diluted and small. Still, you cannot stop yourself.


The wedding reception takes place in a club where moneyed members take great pride in its seclusion, its proximity to the ocean that supplies the majority of its menu night to night. The main hall, with its cavernous, wooden beamed ceiling, slate floors and gorgeous, linen draped tables twinkles from the combined effect of hundreds of tealights snugged into small round crystal goblets and strings of thousands of tiny white lights hung from the rafters. Guests spill out onto the lawn, a bluff overlooking the churning Atlantic. Salt spray from crashing waves coats your lips, and you taste the brine as you sip your wine. You stand near your husband, quiet and at peace as he drinks his scotch and looks out at the water. You are celebrating your tenth anniversary witnessing the union of a young cousin and her longtime boyfriend.


You don't know them well. You hope they are wise beyond their youth and know that they will need to love each other with faith and forgiveness and fervor. You hope they know that this evening is a rare and beautiful gift, but that the most memorable times will likely be much less elegant. You remember your own wedding, but much more clearly remember your own young husband running down a hospital hallway late at night, screaming for help because the blood and the baby started to come quickly and with terrifying ferocity. You vaguely remember repeating vows "for better or for worse," but remember with crystal clarity looking into his eyes, searching for understanding, when you learned of your mother's death. You remember that it was THEN that you knew you would be with him forever, that his sad blue eyes would be the ones you looked into for decades to come.


You dance after dinner. Your dress, made of navy blue silk so heavy and fine that its cool folds feel like water as they swish around your legs, fits you beautifully. You dance with abandon, wine coursing through you and the freedom of 2,000 miles distance from responsibility of caring for the children and the house leaving you giddy. You dance to the band as they play songs with thick,plonking base artfully woven in with the delicate pluck of guitar and warm, deep thrum of piano. You dance near cousins who taught you the art of skinny dipping in Lake Pocotopaug when you were 6. You yell above the din them that you want to go skinny dipping again, tonight, in the cold ocean with them. It has been 30 years and you want to play naked in the water more than anything tonight.


You and your husband leave the reception with your cousins and both of their husbands and drive to a beach. It is after midnight and fog has rolled in thick and wet. The three men seem incredulous and embarrassed that these three tipsy women cousins are so adamantly, energetically racing toward the water. You are yards from the water when you three stop and look at each other and then at the foreboding black water. Shaking, you giggle as you unzip your dresses and slip out of them. You all race to the water, slowing down only a bit as you wade into the frothy cold. You wade further until you lose your footing and you all three float. Sobered, your voices shake with chill and adrenalin. Your conversation turns oddly practical - how long will we stay in? What are the guys talking about? You decide to breaststroke back after a few minutes.


You emerge from the sea, three women, nude and empowered by your comfort and familiarity with the cold salty water. On land now, you feel awkward and acutely aware of the fact that your naked body, the body that felt so elegant in silk and so graceful in water is now going to be seen by men you barely know. You each scoop up your dresses and walk through the fog to the men. Each husband walks to his wife and stands at an angle to perhaps keep her from being seen by the other men. Your husband seems the most uncomfortable and a cousin rescues you both by offering his jacket to wrap up in. You are annoyed that your husband did not think to do it himself. The dreaminess of the evening is beginning to fade.


You drive to your hotel and shower, hoping that a good dry cleaning will take the salt stains from your silk dress. In the morning, your aunt calls to make sure no one was arrested, you all have a laugh at the impetuous late night stunt.


Later that day, you board a flight home and replay the whole evening in your head. It was glorious in its perfection and imperfection alike.


You wonder if the young couple will remember their wedding night with the same clarity and passion that you remember it with.