As Julie floated down the aisle, the organist played the wedding march at exactly the speed she had instructed during the previous day’s rehearsal. Then, with the practiced skill, the organist morphed the majestic tones into the chords of doom. Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor.

Julie glanced quickly at Jordan, who had frozen in place at the altar, a strained smile on his face. Typical. She threw her bouquet on the polished, parquet floor. A single rose escaped.

Lifting the front of her gown, Julie marched towards the organist. Her train bearers scrambled to follow her, barely succeeding in keeping the twelve-foot train and its seven hundred Swarovski crystal beads off the floor.

At Julie’s approach, the organist morphed the music into the Maple Leaf Rag. His shoulders pistoned under his shirt. Julie flicked him on the bottom edge of his skull, using her knuckle rather than a fingernail to protect her manicure. Without turning to look back, and with only a slight note misstep considering the effectiveness of the flick, the organist resumed the wedding march.

Julie strode back to the aisle, train bearers still valiantly in tow. Her father, who had waited patiently, handed her the bouquet, with the stray rose tucked back in. She picked the rose out, placed it in the correct spot, faced forward, and resumed the march toward her betrothed.

This was embarrassing, but useful. For years to come, if her parents tried to have their way, she could cite this blunder. Their judgment was suspect. After all, they had been the ones to insist on using her brother as the organist at her wedding.

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