My best friend's wedding is next week.
My bestfriend’s wedding is next week. I bought a gift, I bought a new dress. She bought hers: her tan skin, darkened by the sun and the sea was in contrast with the paleness of the white, with the purity of the lace, which I already saw stained by the blood on the hands of her husband, those same hands that until now barely ever touched her. But it’s a known fact that in marriage chivarly rules don’t matter. If before one would preserve himself from scaring their trophy-girlfriend, from scraping away the gold patina that was on her and from getting the witheness of the dress dirty, now that the trophy has been won one doesn’t think twice before smashing it, sending it into a milion pieces and getting his hands bloody. Or even leaving it on a shelf.
