The ripped wedding gown had been easy to remove, even on her own. She had arched her back, flexed her spine, and the buttons had burst open. She had shaken herself free and watched the ruined corset, ripped along the right-hand side, fall from her body. She had picked up the gown, draped it over the toilet, and, next to the porcelain white, it had looked dirty, deflated. She had tried not to think of her parents. It was in Margot and Sasha’s black bin now, organza bursting from the lid.
