The first swing missed my tuxedo lapel. A chunk of boutonniere flopped to the ground anyway.
“That’s just Nate,” she said with a peculiar air of detachment. At least someone in this living room was calm.
His second swing caught the floorboards between my feet.
“My brother’s wound tight,” she added unnecessarily. “He thinks no one’s ever good enough.”
Thankfully, his axe stuck in the rotting wood, buying some much-needed time.
“We still doin’ the corsage, or what?” she called after me.
I had wondered why the prettiest girl in school didn’t have a prom date.
I wondered no longer.
The Weekday One Hundred 