The bride was barefoot and the groom cried. Of course, it was All Hallows Eve. The weather was warm enough that the butterflies swarmed from their hanging nests. The rangers had warned us but we had come to their grotto anyway. Their curiosity knew no bounds and they flittered and fluttered above the heads of the wedding party. Some alighted on various shoulders covered in suits or even on bare skin; that tickled. No one dared brush them off. Their orange and black wings contrasted nicely with the somber suits. Some settled on heads, but all avoided red hair. They were for the most part quiet, though a few whispered amongst themselves, their long black antennae twitching, commenting on how lovely the bride was. They quieted down when the couple repeated their vows and exchanged rings. Many wiped tears from their eyes.
I heard one, squatting on my right shoulder, ask his neighbor, “When does she turn into a witch?”
The neighbor snorted. “You fool, that doesn’t happen for years.”
“Oh, right. I forgot.”