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They hadn't quite had a wedding. They felt comfortable together on their puffy cream couch, looking around the living aroom at their matching bookcases, coordinated area rug and curtains, framed artwork in pale greens and yellows; Missy loved furnishing an apartment, loathed the idea of wedding planning. Her sister June's wedding had been large but homey - homemade invitations juxtaposed by an extravagant cake - and Missy had felt naked and shamed in her attempt to toast the happy couple (as was her maid of honor duty). It's hard to make words feel important when they are merely capped with the frivolity of champagne, she felt. Weddings were nothing but show - even small ones. And all this business of dresses and tastings and invitations. All this fruitless business of turning committment into theater. Tragedy or comedy, best left to the stage and the starving artists.