The blushing bride drenched in a gown of jean. Puffed princess shoulders like mutated blueberries, a billowing skirt stuffed by more-deserving tule, and pockets—of course to hold loose change—for the off chance there was a tollhouse on her way down the aisle.
A farce of design itself, created with no compromises to ease its inert dysphoria.
Still, she walked through the holy doors with not a gasp bold enough to break the organ’s tune. Not a peep until the groom threw himself into a full-body laugh. “Sarah, you’re the dumbest woman I ever loved.”
A farce of design itself, created with no compromises to ease its inert dysphoria.
Still, she walked through the holy doors with not a gasp bold enough to break the organ’s tune. Not a peep until the groom threw himself into a full-body laugh. “Sarah, you’re the dumbest woman I ever loved.”
