Annie

My sister married a guy she met in a bar at the border, and our father blamed it on the heat. They came back with dull rings and peeling suntans and a story about love burning quick like highway fires, and now we’re having a bigger ceremony than our dad can pay for, with silk tents and tea lights and a priest willing to pretend they didn’t elope. I’m with her in this Hilton bridal suite, which smells too strongly of hair spray and other girls’ perfumes, stuffing her into this gown her new husband bought her.

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