Suddenly, the sweet-smelling plumeria flowers around my neck annoyed me. The leis were so thick and heavy I felt claustrophobic with their sickly sweet aroma, so I took them off and hung them over my arm as we walked back toward the condo with our entourage. John did not notice I had taken them off, but my best gal did.
“Gee, honey, don’t you like the leis?” she said as she took a piece of gum out of its wrapper and stuck it in her mouth, chewing it with a kind of animatronic gusto that reminded me of a doll I once had that would open and close its mouth whenever I patted her back.
I smiled sweetly, trying to be polite. “The smell is a little overwhelming.”
Still chomping on the gum, she said, “Well, as your maid of honor”—emphasizing the word maid as if she hadn’t lost her virginity yet—“I think you need to know it took me a long time this morning to make those leis.”
Overwhelmed by my solitary journey of becoming Mrs. Stewart, I suddenly realized I had offended this person who had obviously made an effort for our wedding. I put the leis back on.
“Thank you for making our wedding day so unique,” I muttered.
She nodded her head in time to her gum chewing. “Yeah, well, there’s not much else to do here except sit on the beach.”
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