She tossed her head, feeling the flower whisper at the base of her neck.

She didn’t know who she would strike up a conversation with at the wedding, only that she would certainly walk away richer for her contact. Meeting new people was almost better than people watching. Some of her friends hated meeting new people. The questions. The looks of pity. They simply scurried out of their shoebox rooms with their thinning hair and desperate eyes and then scurried out of sight, like mice burrowing back into their holes. Not she. You were as pass? as you felt. Youth was a state of mind, she thought on the way of the door.

Out in the street, she pulled the soft wrap around her shoulders. It was cold, but walking would warm her. It was such an achingly beautiful night. Even if someone offered her a ride home she’d refuse it, she decided, and walk home as well.

She loved the moonlit nights after simchahs, when she could relish and dissect everything she had gathered in her people-watching stint.

That time she had overheard a fight between a newlywed and her husband. He hadn’t complimented her on her dress. What a silly thing to fight about. Just be happy! You have each other!

The traffic signal held up an orange hand and cars whizzed past.

This wedding was the perfect opportunity. She didn’t know a soul. Except the kallah, of course. Workmates’ weddings were mandatory, but since they ran in different circles, she probably wouldn’t have to make conversation with anyone, freeing up her evening for her to do with as she fancied.

The newly minted batch of shidduchettes — they were the best. She loved to watch them: their shyness at the whole process, the excitement, the glowing look, the assurances. It restored her sense of faith and fun in a process that could so easily go stale.

She neared the glass double doors of the hall just as they opened, pouring music out into the night. A couple, him with a neat, dark beard, her with a highly teased blond sheitel and sequins twinkling in the light, stood making arrangements about when to meet.

“Try to remember to look at your watch this time,” he said dryly.

The sheitel didn’t say a word, just turned back into the warmth and light.

Oh. That had been fertile ground for a swift rejoinder. Well, the night was young.

A guy in a beketshe and pointed shoes tossed a glowing cigarette butt into the street and went into the men’s entrance.

She stepped into the hall, feeling her heels sink into the maroon paisley carpet. She checked her wrap into the coat room, smiling at the Russian woman who scowled back at her, grabbed her wrap, and thrust a ticket into her hand. “Don’t lose,” she commanded.

All this woman had to do was take coats and tickets. Was that such a cause for dyspeptic behavior? From what she had heard about Russia, this job seemed like a piece of cake compared to laboring with mud and livestock — or worse, no mud and no livestock.

Oh well, the foibles of man.

Down the long row of carpeted steps. A little boy in a cream vest and a matching hat clutched the hand of a smaller girl, with long blond ringlets, wearing a cream dress. Their eyes were round with concentration and wonder. There was something so protective about the way he led her down the long steps.

A group of young girls, hair piled in curls and studded with pearls and flowers, all held together with pounds of spray, rushed passed her giggling, almost knocking over a frail, small-stepping grandmother in the process. “Careful!” the bubby remonstrated, shaking an arthritic finger.

Entering the hall, she looked around.

“I’m having the same centerpieces, but I’m adding orchids and tulips instead of just roses,” a woman in a winter white suit with dark skin was saying to her tall friend.

The bouquets were beautiful tonight, even if they did just have roses. What an original color combination. Then she looked around. The wedding attire rivaled the flowers. What a shame that everyone really only noticed themselves. She was glad she didn’t dress to get noticed; she hated to be disappointed. It was funny, though. Everyone was so concerned with how they looked that they hardly had time to notice anyone else — unless one was speaking about noticing that woman.

Now she was hard to miss.

She swallowed a giggle. Probably couldn’t make that bow an inch larger without scaffolding to prop it up. If it wasn’t high fashion, no one would have been caught dead in such a concoction. So much for the emperor’s clothes.

And this was an interesting chassan-kallah situation. It was as if someone had shaken up a kaleidoscope and tossed it out into the wedding hall.

A group of shpitzles stood together, ears, throats, fingers, and wrists glittering. Near them stood a large group of girls with long, curly hair and bohemian skirts. There were also your typical Boro Parkers. And then there was Mrs. Haute Couture.

She got in her mazel tovs, but everyone was so preoccupied that the smiles were forced and eyes didn’t make contact.

She walked over to the smorgasbord. Of course there was that couple, she with her short, curled, synthetic sheitel and he with his gray straw trilby hat and gray, plastic-topped cane. Both with matching knots in their backs. She was filling his ceramic plate with liver.

He reached for some egg kichels.

“Your sugar!” she snapped. He drew his hand back. “And don’t get yourself filthy!”

Oh my, she thought. Crackers and liver could cause so much discord — even when they were free!

She took some cut melon and looked around, either for someone to watch or for someone to speak to.

Two girls sat at a nearby table. Twenty somethings. Possible candidates. She rested her plate down on their table for a minute to wipe a drip off her finger. She looked down at them and smiled. If they’d return the smile, she’d strike up a conversation. Instead, they looked back at her, do we know you? She picked up her plate and quickly moved on.

She stood beside an aromatic floral stand to watch the room. A lady in a large fringed scarf came up beside her.

“What a beautiful wedding,” she said, food spraying out of her mouth, her remaining teeth clicking together. “Tzedakah?” she then asked, pushing forward a metal baking pan.

The music changed to happy klezmer and the crowd parted, pushing her and the woman apart.

In a shower of confetti, the badeken was over. The crowd moved slowly toward the chuppah room. She eyed the scene. The chairs filled with people, girls of various ages lined up against the wall.

Chuppahs offered their own particular milieu. There were women who dabbed at their eyes with tissue corners and turned eyes Heavenward — not in prayer, but to keep the mascara from running. How many Jewish tears had been lost in saving makeup?

On the other end of the spectrum were the freshly hatched, clutching yehi ratzons, eyes squeezed shut as if they could conjure up what they desired through sheer will alone. Bodies tilted to one side, shoulders tight, these girls leaned forward in exaggerated motion from the waist and shook like weeds in the wind. It was so cute watching desperate almost-18-year-olds “storming the heavens.” Older singles couldn’t risk showing emotions if they didn’t wish to be pitied. She guessed people without children also felt self-conscious. She was glad you couldn’t suffer both indignities at the same time.

She took her place against the wall. In front of her stood those two girls from the smorg, their heads bent together, their hair mingled together, dirty blond and brown.

They didn’t seem to notice her. She was glad. The previous exchange had left her feeling exposed.

“And then he came around the car door and—”

“And what? Tell me!” the other begged, eyes sparkling.

Now she was part of their conversation and they couldn’t even help it, couldn’t keep her out, she thought with satisfaction. She moved in a bit closer.

The first one groaned. “Oh, it was so corny. I don’t even want to go out with him again.”

“Why not?” the second asked, insisted.

The storytelling stopped.

Uh-oh. Did they catch her? She never liked to get caught people watching, but this time it would be so much worse.

She casually turned her head as if looking for someone. She threw a small wave for effect.

“Why not?” the second girl repeated again.

She breathed a sigh of relief. They were continuing the conversation.

The flare of music swelled as the kallah glided down the aisle, propped up on one side by a silk tichel, on the other by a long, unruly auburn sheitel.

Bruchah Haba’ah came over the loudspeaker.

The music paused.

Whispers were carried on the wind.

“She’s listening in. It’s so weird she should listen in like that. Probably hasn’t had a date in months. And did you see her before?”

“I know, it totally looked like she wanted to sit with us!”

“Totally. That flower in her hair? And her hair color?! So unnatural. Someone should tell her something.”

“Tsk,” said the second girl, shaking her head. “Nebach.”

“Shh,” said a formidable woman in a blond layered sheitel and a five-carat diamond.

She was out in the street. She barely knew how she got there. If it was cold, she didn’t feel it.

She made her way home, not noticing the moon now high in the sky or the shimmer of a first snow on the shining branches.

Opening the door to her room — her room like a shoebox — the smell of gardenias overpowered her. She avoided the mirror, so as not to see the shattered veneer in her freshly colored roots. Catching up the bouquet, she dragged it out into the dim hallway and stuffed it into the landlord’s puce garbage can. The flower fell from her hair and under her feet.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 531)