Exhausted white petals, the altar flowers were drooping. Mrs. Klausman, church pianist, was going all “Carnival of Souls” on the the organ. Mr. Benson, the father of the bride, was psyching himself up for the best worst speech of his life. Checking their watches, the guests in the pews waited in confusion. Holding his head, the Rev. John Paul Cordero mumbled to himself.

“Is it really that big a deal?” Peter asked. “It’s a family tradition.”

Half drunk glasses of mimosas and a decimated fruit and cheese platter decorated the bridal suite. Rita, the makeup artist, pressed her ear to the hotel suite door to catch all the deets of the hellacious argument on the other side of the door. Something heavy smashed into the wall. Someone punched the door. Rita skedaddled to the lobby.

“We waited for each other so long, babe,” Peter said. “You know my father is traditional.”

Mrs. Benson, mother of the bride, cried onto her slice of six layer French vanilla buttercream yellow cake with quince and strawberry compote. Fueled by the open bar, the guests broke into a spontaneous chicken dance. Alana Morissette raged from Bethany’s speakers on the way to the airport. Why waste a perfectly good honeymoon? The bride and her sister Olive sang at the top of their lungs.

“Babe, my dad just needs to do a quick examination for purity. My mom did it!”