Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
“We cannot wait, Mason,” I said. “You know how much time Maribel has left.”
“I do know,” Mason said, looking down at his shoes. “But I do not know how we survive the next three weeks like this.”
“We survive by standing our ground,” I said.
“It feels like we are fighting a war instead of planning a wedding,” he said, turning toward the hallway.
I watched him walk away, his shoulders heavy under his gray sweater.
I picked up the thick planning binder, with its forty-five dollars worth of satin ribbons hanging from the rings, and threw it onto the sofa in frustration.
The binder hit the cushions with a heavy thud, the three-ring metal clasp popping open just enough to let a few green budget sheets slip out onto the floor. I did not pick them up. Instead, I walked down our short hallway, my socks sliding on the cold linoleum, and found Mason standing in the small bathroom.
