Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
We arrived at Evelyn’s house at seven, the autumn wind rustling the dry oak leaves along her driveway. The dining room was quiet, the radiator in the corner giving off only a faint, rhythmic hiss that sounded like someone breathing in the dark. Evelyn had laid out forty-five dollars worth of satin ribbon on the long mahogany table that had been in her family for forty years, alongside thirty-six thick cream-colored envelopes. A cup of cold English breakfast tea costing two dollars sat on a coaster near her elbow, a thin skin of condensation forming on the surface of the dark liquid.
“These invitations need to be in the mail by Friday morning,” Evelyn said, without looking up from her work.
She was matching the return envelopes with small brass paperclips, her movements quick and practiced.
“Well, Mason wanted to talk to you first,” I said, pulling out a heavy dining chair.
Mason stood by the sideboard, his hand reaching up to touch his collarbone as he looked at the stacks of paper.
“Mom, we went to see Grandma yesterday,” Mason said.
