A few from Saturday's wedding

Lisa gracefully walked the ballroom as it was being dressed for her reception later that evening. Her languid fingers touched the linen napkins and china as she passed each table, as if knowing the night’s meal would be much different than those of the past. The Presidential East Room chandelier hung from the Nixon Library ceiling and cast tungsten shadows from overhead. Did you know these are exact replicas, she asked me earlier that day.

She made her way to the corner of the ballroom where a Steinway silently resided. She pecked the ebony and ivory keys, then—as if under a spell—she looked around to see if anyone was watching her. She quickly bundled her ReemAcra dress under her curved arms and placed the layers of silk and chiffon over the piano bench. And then she played.

Chopin emanated from the piano and Lisa worked effortlessly to seduce listeners. She swayed side to side and closed her eyes. Her husband-to-be looked at her from across the ballroom and knew that she was playing for him, for them. Just as a Siren, she lured him away. Away from the wedding coordinator, away from his groomsmen. He sonorously clapped for her and beamed with matrimonial bliss.

The ballroom stopped when she played, so when the song ended, she looked up coquettishly and smiled directly to Riki, who hadn’t stopped clapping.