She was frail and had the squeaky voice of a twelve-year-old. The 4-carat solitaire weighed heavily on her hand. The band was thin, but ill-sized. The makings for a romantic Italian dinner advanced down the conveyor belt: wine, spaghetti, marinara sauce, parmesan, Italian bread. She intended to cook the meal and sit across from her fiance as he enjoyed it, but while at the table she would do little more that twirl the spaghetti about her fork and swirl around pools of tomato sauce. She had already eaten an apple for breakfast today and couldn't afford any extra calories, not if she wanted to look gorgeous in her wedding dress next month. No one loved her enough to tell her that taffeta and lace don't hang well on skeletons.
I hope your rambles have been sweet and your reveries spacious. - Emily Dickinson