Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
I stood on the bottom step, looking at the empty porch.
The yellow light from the window cut through the dark, and then the porch light clicked off, leaving the street in darkness.
The rain in Maplewood, Ohio, had started before six in the morning, leaving a greasy film on the storefront windows of Third Street. Inside Mr. Vance’s portrait studio, the air was warm and smelled of chemical toner and damp wool coats. A single brass floor lamp illuminated the corner where Mason and I sat on a low, green vinyl sofa. On the table before us lay the mock-up of our wedding program, tied with the forest-green satin ribbon that had cost forty-five dollars at the craft store in town. I rolled my gold engagement ring around my finger, watching the water droplets slide down the glass of Mr. Vance’s front door.
Mr. Vance, a tall man with silver hair combed straight back, flipped through his black leather binder. He stopped at our date, October twelfth, and tapped a manicured fingernail against the gridded calendar page.
