They had never been in a wedding before, and they had not anticipated this much waiting around. Tania and Josephine, in the itchy tulle of their buoyant dresses, kept the bride, Marie, company.
Each sat hunched over (ignoring the ‘no sitting’ rule), with chin in palm, silently sighing. Tania held a glass of room temperature water in her free hand, fantasizing about her own wedding, seemingly undeterred by the dullness of this particular event. Josephine wore a sterner face, continually rubbing her arm as if experiencing a chill. All Marie could think about was the constricting (cheap, thick) lace that sleeved her thin arms, and the faux white splayed rose perched upon the forefront of her head.
“We are certainly not white roses…or any color roses for that matter,” Marie tugged at the thick papery thing upon her head, but thought better of it and kept it intact.
