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Carolyn
When I met Zora Cahill at knitting club, I never would have guessed that the girl who always uses beige yarn would want such an extravagant wedding. Clearly, I was wrong because inside, Zora must be bursting with rainbow colors.
After all, this event is out of this world. We haven’t even stepped into the ballroom yet, but the hallway of the hotel has been adorned with trellises dripping with vines, a huge decorative sunburst display made of dandelions and blood-red tulips, as well as a veritable feast of seafood, cheese, and tasty snacks for guests to enjoy as we wait. It must have cost a fortune, and yet instead of being overwhelmed, my boyfriend Corey looks put out.
“We’ve been here forever,” he whines while tapping his foot. His chestnut hair is swept back and he looks handsome in a blue suit, but it’s not just about looks anymore. Corey’s attitude gets to me, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes, something I’ve found myself doing more and more lately.
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral. “We’ve only been waiting for five minutes.”
He crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child.
“Yeah, but I’m starving! I want to eat.”
I look around the room pointedly as waiters circle with silver trays.
“There are lots of hors d’oeuvres. You like stuffed mushrooms, don’t you? Have one of those. Or look! Lobster, mmmm. That’s bound to be delicious.”
Corey just looks more put out.
“Yeah, but it’s not a meal, Carolyn. We were at the ceremony forever and I want real food. I can’t just survive on lobster and stuffed mushrooms. Please.”
I try not to roll my eyes again because he sounds like a spoiled child prince from a fairy tale. Instead, I try to placate the young man.
“I know, baby. I’m hungry too, but it’s Zora and Tim’s wedding. It’s not like we can start in on the main course without them. That would be rude,” I try to reason.
“No, I don’t think so,” Corey huffs stubbornly. “As hosts, it’s their job to keep their guests fed and they’re failing.” This time, I ignore his whine in favor of looking around at the beautiful décor instead. A chandelier that probably costs more than I make in a year dangles above my head, and three more line the hallway towards the ballroom, sending shimmering rays of light all about the space.
“This place is beautiful,” I say, trying to change the subject. “What do you think the guest rooms upstairs look like? Probably absolutely sumptuous and wonderful, don’t you think?”
