Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
She walked out of the kitchen toward the hallway, her heels clicking on the hardwood, leaving her cup on the counter.
By one o’clock, I was back at the Maplewood Public Library, sorting returned biography books onto the metal cart. The smell of old paper and carpet cleaner always kept me calm, but today the metal wheels of the cart squeaked with every turn down the history aisle. My supervisor, Mrs. Gable, called me into her small glass office at the back of the reference section.
“We have a scheduling problem for next month, Clara,” Mrs. Gable said, looking at a spreadsheet on her computer screen.
“The wedding is in three weeks,” I said, holding a stack of cardstock dividers. “I have the Friday and Saturday of the rehearsal approved.”
“Donna’s mother is having hip surgery that weekend, and we are already short-staffed,” she said, her glasses sliding down her nose. “I need you to work the Saturday shift from noon until eight.”
“But the rehearsal is at five, Mrs. Gable,” I said, my finger rolling my gold engagement ring around and around. “The dinner starts at six thirty.”
