mother of the groom and bride collections in vintage style

My sleep schedule isn't what it could be, and consequently I'm struggling to keep up the pace. Oh well. 500+ words today, and onward I go. Thanks guys for keeping up.

Pavla Chandler
Steven Kendall
Sandy Lyle Lunt
Marvin Proctor Jr
Virginia Mullins
Angelika Le Faucheur

Three o’clock had come and gone by the time they’d parked and purchased their tickets, and as they passed through the gate, collars up to the autumn air, a distant clock tower was chiming a quarter to four. Blanketing the grounds were shadows cast by pavilions, tents, and carnival rides, and the low afternoon sun peeking through gaps in boards and beams glinted across glass panes and steel rails. Everywhere patrons were squinting and shading their eyes with cupped hands.

The big-ticket events had passed, so the crowd was small; many of the vendors had packed up early to beat traffic, leaving behind empty booths and tents. Every aisle in every corner of the fair seemed to be lingering past its expiration, except in the midway where life continued on—perhaps not as strong as on days prior, but enough that Corey felt that he was, for the first time, part of something larger than himself. As he took his place in a line in front of a coffee vendor, he wished he could express his sense of fulfillment to Anatta, the sense of homecoming among strangers; but to find the words would be to lose the moment, so he turned his attention instead to the sweet aroma of fried dough wafting over from the next booth. mother of the groom and bride collections in vintage style

“I may be hungrier than I thought,” he said to Anatta, who was herself examining the menu at the fried dough stand.

“What was I thinking ordering pie? Will you split some with me?”

“You barely ate your pie. I think two portions are warranted.”

“I don’t want a whole one though. Split one with me, okay?”

Corey agreed, and Anatta stepped out of line and up to the counter of the pastry booth where no one was waiting.

She couldn’t have looked more alien in the crowd, as if an actress had flown in from L.A. to shoot a scene. In the parking lot she’d put on the knee-length faux leather coat she’d bought earlier in the day, and she was wearing it over a gray turtleneck dress with charcoal leggings. A pair of pendulous gold earrings that looked like globes grazing her collar swung a little whenever she turned her head; as Corey watched her order they caught some of the piercing afternoon sun.

As Corey’s wardrobe had come under Anatta’s purview, he’d begun to feel more distinguished as well. The cable knit sweater he was wearing was a cashmere blend, and the pale blue shirt underneath had French cuffs and came from the Brooks Brothers outlet in Freeport.


Corey jumped. Someone was tapping on his shoulder.

“I believe you’re next.” It was a woman’s voice coming from behind.

“And I believe you’re right,” he said, remembering himself. “My apologies.”

“She’s pretty. Fifty years ago my husband looked at me that way.”

Corey turned around and saw two diminutive octogenarians standing behind him. One was a bearded man with liver spots across across his head, and the other was a stout woman with thick, red-rimmed glasses. She had a sharp, knowing expression while his was distant and glassy. “I don’t doubt it,” Corey said with a subtle but gracious bow, and then he turned back to the booth and ordered coffee for himself and Anatta.