Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
“They are very nice,” I said.
Under the white linen tablecloth, my knee brushed against the hard wooden box we had hidden beneath our table. The key was still in my small white satin purse, resting against my thigh.
Maribel sat two seats down from us, slowly eating her dinner, the blue silk scarf still tied securely around her head. She had not touched her water glass.
I thought of the day I found her favorite ivory brush hidden under that folded peach towel in her bathroom. I remembered the silver strands of hair in the bristles, and the way the bathroom mirror had looked with its water spots. The memory felt cold and heavy, a sharp contrast to the bright ballroom lights.
“Clara, you have barely touched your salad,” Evelyn said, gesturing with her fork. “You need to eat something before the dancing starts.”
“I am not very hungry, Evelyn,” I said.
“Well, we have a long night ahead of us,” she said, turning to talk to my father.
Mason leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Are you ready?”
