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48 Always a Bridesmaid what she saw, double-quick, lickety-split out her door, swung on a line in front of her, a fat articulated caterpillar hanging from the thinnest strand of silk, twirling in the air before her, as if a necklace only just begun to be beaded. what a thing to wear, she thought, and touched her slack neck, a necklace of bright green caterpillars, head to bottom, head to bottom; it was what she imagined on her way to the church and even later, as the ham-handed gawky boy in a limp tuxedo held out his fingers to her as she exited the ridiculously stretched limo. she wished her shoes were dyed the color of limes, the hue of exotic tree frogs and coconut hull, a color to match her necklace and not the puerile taffeta and puffy sleeves. and later, lining up for the procession, and walking forward in step, she felt a flutter at her throat, blurred wings (oh, of course, it would happen as no such thing, but just this once let the bridesmaid have her own way, 49 let her choose her favorite color, let her look down to see her green necklace turning to flowers, then flying away, into seven different skies and many odd graces). ...

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