The Pheasant Feather Hat
She wore white, of course. A vision, isn’t that what they say? She was a vision. Her bouquet complemented his buttonhole. Lemon blossom for fidelity, sorrel for affection. She provided little cards so we would know exactly what was signified by the arrangement she held to her bosom. A marble shelf, her bosom, thanks to the frock. Sepulchre in satin.
‘All flowers and plants,’ she divulged,‘have special meanings.’
Fidelity and affection. Lovely copperplate printing in the card, very black and emphatic. When it came time for the tossing I stood aside, taking refuge beneath the brim of my hat. All you could see of my face was the smile I’d painted there in lipstick: Rum Kiss.
Read on (pages 34-35)