“Oooh, will you look at that! Look at what she’s wearing?”
Ethel did as her sister bade and turned to see Poe’s bride sashaying formidably down the aisle.
“I say, isn’t that a treat, then?” exclaimed Ethel with some enthusiasm.
“Whad’r’ya sayin’?” moped Mable. “It’s ‘orrendous!”
“What are you saying, you myopic mad woman? This is tremendous! Dark and sullen. Suits her perfectly!”
“But it’s a wedding, Ethel. What’s with that crow?”
“Mabel, Mabel, Mabel,” Ethel whispered to her sister, “Don’t be so blind. You had to know that Poe was going to choose a dark one. You just had to. His mum’s been dressing like a Gothic princess for years since our Malcolm died in that horrible spelunking accident. Always in mourning, that one. I mean, I miss our brother too, but at some point you have to move on. Still,” Ethel came up for air, “poor little Poe has never known anything different than the dark princess and it seems obvious to me that he would choose someone like his mum, so why would you be surprised? Besides, Isabella looks beautiful, don’t you think?”
Mabel pulled out a cotton handkerchief from her handbag and sniffed into it, dabbing at the tears that spilled in memory of her brother.
“Oh, Ethel,” she moaned as the shiver of fabric advanced sinuously down the aisle, “I know all of that. And I know Isabella is lovely, and Poe ‘as ‘ad to put up with a lot since his dad died, but I do prefer the traditional approach. This is a little bit too far off the tea wagon for my taste.” Mabel stopped and wiped her nose before finishing her thought. “Still, you’re right, it suits Isabella.”
“Yes, it does suit her. And they suit each other. It takes all kinds to make a world, and thank goodness for that or what a boring place this would be.”
Mabel turned to look at Poe waiting at the alter, darkly handsome and hormonal. Three bridesmaids adorned in black and carrying black and purple lilies and tulips with just a spray of baby’s breath here and there for contrast, wore make-up darkly contoured and defining. Almost haunting. The whole proceeding seemed more like a dark cartoon than a joyful tradition, in Mabel’s mind, but then, she was a simple woman with simple tastes, not prone to wandering into extremes. She offered up a deep sigh and an accepting smile as Isabella kicked the feathered train with a black-shoed foot and rustled by, leaving a wiggle in her wake.
Mabel turned once more to Ethel who was herself smiling at the independence of thought on display.
“Yes, Mabel, what do you want now?”
“Do you know if Hortense has set up tea during pictures?”
Another free write courtesy of Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday.
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©Dorothy Chiotti … Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014