Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
He rubbed his collarbone, his eyes fixed on the silver hair in the old photograph.
“My mother says we are just imagining things,” he said.
“Your mother wants everything to look perfect,” I said. “That is not the same as things being fine.”
Mason did not answer. He picked up the small photograph of his grandmother and slid it into his pocket.
At three o’clock, I met Evelyn at the office of our wedding coordinator on Broad Street. The room had white walls and a large glass table covered in miniature floor plans of the Grand Oak Ballroom. Evelyn was already sitting there, holding a black felt-tip pen and a sheet of paper.
“I have revised the table assignments,” she said as I sat down.
She pointed the pen at a paper circle labeled Table Nine.
“I think we should move Maribel here,” she said.
Table Nine was in the far corner, next to the service pantry and the emergency exit.
“Why would she sit in the back?” I asked.
“It is much quieter for her there, Clara,” Evelyn said, tapping her finger on her purse strap.
