Until now, she'd never thought of herself as pretty. Even this morning, she hadn't really thought of it. A white dress, sure. A veil, sure. Kitten heels, yes. She had told Marjorie that she didn't want her make-up done.
"I've been doing all right for forty years," she said. Marjorie just looked at her and then looked away without saying anything.
Marjorie was pretty. Everyone thought so. It wasn't so much a matter of thinking, even. Empirically, she was attractive. But she wore a lot of make-up.
This morning Marjorie wasn't there. Wasn't there to watch her pull on stockings and even that silly blue garter. Just for show, for luck, for old times' sake.
"Are you ready?" It was Marjorie. Calling on her phone. From downstairs. That was the kind of thing pretty people did.
She came down the stairs at a quarter past two. The music was playing. She could see Marjorie grinning at the landing, calla lilies in her hands. Marjorie had picked out pale peach ones because they complemented her skin tone. And then she took a step. The wrong one, as it turned out.
Pretty. Peach-colored flowers. Ribbons. Chiffon. All she could see was pretty, all the way down the stairs.