"Why don't you take a seat over there?"
The young man, in his mid twenties, heads to the seat he was offered. He completes the table of eight, nodding stiffly to both left and right as he sits down. There are a dozen matching tables placed all over the hall, all full of smiling, talking and laughing guests in suits and dresses.
The young man stares at his plate for the next hour, occasionally nibbling on the pâté and salad on it. For some reason he feels like everybody else in the hall suspects him of something.
When the wedding dinner is about to end the young man's older brother happens to walk by and recognize the arch of his back. The older brother, in his flashy white suit and with all the bravado the day has granted him, walks closer. He greets the table, puts his hand on his younger brother's shoulder and says: "I hope you all know who this guy is. As I speak, he's trying to define a cultural phenomenon. Look at him. This is what he does 24 hours a day. He's a very distant relative of the Richardsons... but we all appreciate his work."
"A very... distant?" the young man repeats in his mind. "How ironic."
He feels something maneuvering inside of him. Again. He excuses himself from the table.
"It feels like something is kicking my stomach from the inside" he mutters to the rest of the table as he stands up. "I guess this is what women that carry children must feel like", he adds with a laugh that slowly breaks down.
Seven days later no one from the table remembers his face.
Fourteen days later they all do.