The clown shouldn’t be here. He’s standing in the aisle, tears cascading down his silly face. Saturday weather’s too nice for this. I think about asking him to leave but Rach beats me to it.
“Go home please,” she says, touching his elbow.
He nods and produces a large handkerchief to blow his nose in. An usher turns him around, guiding him carefully toward the doors. He had his time with me and I had my time with him. No one’s fault. My bride and I exchange a look of relief before turning back to the priest.
“Old boyfriend,” I shrug.