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Children Are Bored on Sunday
“Children Are Bored on Sunday,” by Jean Stafford | The New Yorker
We went to go meet up some girls of the same school. We were very nervous because I was our first time that we were hanging out with girls , so we had no idea about what to do and what not. As someone in the girls suggested playing a game of spin the bottle. We started playing spin the bottle then after a while it turned to Truth or Dare. Finally I got a dare from a chick so I told her I dare you to strip down to your panties and run across the street naked. She did, but when she started running a truck pulled up honking and the driver was screaming. We had no time to realize what happened and we found out it was her dad so we all bolted.
Emma liked Alfred, and once, at a party in some other year, she had flirted with him slightly for seven or eight minutes. It had been spring, and even into that modern apartment, wherever it had been, while the cunning guests, on their guard and highly civilized, learnedly disputed on aesthetic and political subjects, the feeling of spring had boldly invaded, adding its nameless, sentimental sensations to all the others of the buffeted heart; one did not know and never had, even in the devouring raptures of adolescence, whether this was a feeling of tension or of solution—whether one flew or drowned. In another year, she would have been pleased to run into Alfred here in the Metropolitan on a cold Sunday, when the galleries were thronged with out-of-towners and with people who dutifully did something self-educating on the day of rest.
So the wedding ceremony had happened, we had all eaten the wedding breakfast, the father of the bride and groom had given their speeches, then the best man got up. I think the best man has the toughest job of all. The father of the bride just needs to share some soppy stories.