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I’m skipping ahead a few paragraphs so Jack can compare his opinion of Kirsten—our bridezilla—to his first impression of Viv, our severely caffeine-deprived heroine:
Viv took a third piece of cake, leaned back, and appeared to be studying Bibi, though it was possible she’d dozed off behind her glasses.
He didn’t have sunglasses, so Jack staved off a yawn and did a little idle study of his own. If someone had challenged him to pick Kirsten’s sister out of a lineup, he wouldn’t have chosen the woman next to him.
Kirsten was an ingénue type, with hair down to there, legs up to here, a swan-like neck, and the fashion sense to make it all look even better. She was as lovely as an advertisement for flowered sundresses, and deceptively, relentlessly high-maintenance.
Viv’s hair was a light brown mass of springs and cowlicks, and the layered outfit that encased her from walking boots and ankle-length skirt to oxford-covered crew neck looked like she’d assembled it quickly out of a basket of unfolded laundry.
So either she was low-maintenance or not looking to be maintained.
Or, he thought, hungover.
She’s not hungover no, but the laundry was a good guess.
I don’t know enough, yet, to comment on Viv’s maintenance levels—but I’m fairly certain it would tick her off if she found out someone was trying to judge them.
And look, I finally found a relevant image that wasn’t cake! Oddly enough, it doesn’t make me want to do laundry . . .
non-cake photo credit: Wickerfurniture