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  • "Watch out for that floor," she regarded me dryly, her face
    shoved up close to mine, her eyes narrow. "One wrong move
    and you will bust it."

    I had no idea who she was. Some scab, a last minute replacement
    for the bridesmaid from out of town who failed to show up. She
    looked like someone I wouldn't like. One of those bored, sullen
    girls who is too pretty for her own good and makes everyone
    she meets miserable with it.

    "Good to know," I answered her back, lamely. I felt I should try
    to make some sort of conversation with this hostile girl, since she
    was kind enough to warn me of a potentially hazardous and
    humiliating floor situation. "I really like your dress." It was a black,
    strapless, cocktail thing. She had great cleavage and pale, meaty
    shoulders.

    My sister's only stipulation for her bridal party was that the
    dresses be black. When I purchased my velvet and satin floor-
    length slip with the spaghetti straps, I had assured both myself
    and her that I would be able to cover up the tattoo on my arm with
    some kind of makeup. I had a few misgivings now that I knew
    nothing covers up a tattoo, not even the kind of makeup made
    for scars. Nothing short of CGI or Photoshop was going to keep
    that dragon from boldly rearing its head that day. Screw it,
    I finally decided as I wiped off the caked and gunky residue from
    my skin. The groom has a ponytail longer than mine and the
    best man has a nose ring.
    My body art seemed a small infraction.

    There was some excited chatter and the line began to move toward
    the piano notes ahead. I got to the doorway and almost froze in a
    panic. The wooden floor had been polished since the rehearsal and
    now leered at me like a sheet of honey-colored glass. I clutched my
    roses tighter and took a step. Don't bust it.
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