Fiction

Maid of Honor

She sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands.  The strung lights cast long shadows as she curled her perfectly manicured toes against the rough wood.  It was the first time in a long time her toenails had all been the same color.  She covered her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the stupid white painted flower.  Instead images from earlier flashed through her mind.  His smile, his bare feet, the way his skin looked against the white button-down.  His frown, the hurt in his eyes… She fell backwards with a groan.  This is not how this night is supposed to end.  Her fingers traced patterns in the white bedspread as she stared at the wooden ceiling and the impractical mosquito net.  This night was supposed to be perfect—for both of us.  A single tear dropped from her eye.  This is stupid, she thought.  Screw them.  Screw him.  He’s worthless, anyway.  She didn’t mean to say it out loud.  She hadn’t heard the door open; but she heard it close.

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