All Dressed in White - mini workshop

The first call I got from Cynthia about “the situation” woke me from my sleep: I had begun to situate my cell phone on the bedside table when I turned in for the night, as the nocturnal calls had lately been occurring with greater frequency; but, what are maids of honor for?
“Hello,” I croaked into the phone, its keypad glowing Miami nightclub blue in my sleep-pinched face.
“Deborah? It’s your best friend extraordinaire and the jittery bride-to-be.”
“I know it’s you, Cyn. What’s with the nerves, babe? The wedding is three months away.”
I could hear a large rustling on her end of the line, like an elephant made of tulle and silk was scratching behind its ear. Cynthia tittered. “Actually, sweetie, when I was marking off today’s date on the countdown calendar, I realized it is now officially eleven weeks to the big M. Doesn’t that place us more at two and three quarter months?”
I was almost afraid to ask. “Are you trying on your dress again?”
“On, no. I just finished trying it on, actually. I’m re-bagging it.” The elephant let out a wrinkled groan in testimony. “That’s actually the reason I called-”
“Cynthia, doll, don’t think I’m an uber-bitch or anything, but it’s two am, and this is the fourth night this week that you’ve had a witching hour try-on. Where’s Tom? I’m sure he misses sleeping next to you. Go back to bed with your fiancée, and call me in the morning.”
“Tom’s fine; he has the rest of his life to sleep next to me. Right now, I have wedding-talk to do. Are you sitting down, honey?”
“I’m in bed. Lying.”
“Great, because this is big. Okay: I have lace on my arm.”
I sat up and took a swig from the bottle of Evian on my nightstand; this could be a while. “Your dress has lace sleeves.”
“I know that. But my dress is off now, remember? It’s like part of my sleeve got left on my forearm, the pattern and everything. It’s super vile.”
“It sounds like a rash. Maybe you’re allergic to your dress?”
The gasping intake of breath at my ear was one a wounded soldier might take when hit with yet another bullet in the field. I couldn’t tell which thought was more horrifying to Cynthia: her beloved dress turning against her, or starring in the most important day of her life covered with a pox. I backpedaled as best I could, calmed her somewhat, and told her I’d call an emergency meeting of the bridal party for brunch: this was nothing some champagne and eggs benedict couldn’t handle.
The situation unfolded quickly after that phone call, as if it had been rolled up tight, volatile, ready to unfurl to its full size at the slightest bit of give. By brunch that morning, Cynthia’s entire arm seemed to be, indeed, crafted of lace; the other followed suit within two days. By one week, she had a full torso of immaculate white silk; her back sported a row of pearl buttons that seemed to be fused along her spine. Her real disconcertedness set in by week two, when the large, cloudy bow her butt had become caused a fight between her and Tom.
“He says he’s sick of this ‘wedding shit,’” she sobbed over the phone that I now wore on a belt when in my apartment. “Can you believe he said that about my beautiful day to come?”
“Just try to see things from his side: this whole becoming-a-dress thing must bother him on some level. He’s only human. I bet he just misses you, sweetie.”
She sniffled and crinkled loudly: her skirt had started to come in. “I just couldn’t do it, Deb. He should understand that I can’t make love while I’m like this. What if we stain my bow?”
By five weeks to M-Day, though, Cynthia had perked up. I suppose it was the shoes, a pair of Swarovski-encrusted Minalo’s that were true one-of-a-kinds because they couldn’t be removed. She did revert to inconsolable despair when she thought her hair was suddenly prematurely graying only nine weeks before her big day, until she realized her locks were simply turning into her eight-hundred dollar Vera Wang veil; then, she was ecstatic. “Ladies,” she addressed her bridal party at the pre-shower shower, “Casablanca-”themed down to the fezzes we all donned. “Am I not the ultimate bride, or what?”
The days were swiftly crossed off the count-down calendar; the bridesmaids went in for second and third fittings on dresses, for in the stress of the planning all the girls had either gained or lost weight. Cynthia was aglow: she floated amongst her brood in an exclamation of white and glory, a living tower of lace and crinoline and sequins. She was thriving in the repeat trips to the florist, outdoing all the blazing lilies and snowy hydrangeas that fought for breathing room in light of her unwiltable splendor; the bakery had not a cake, despite tiers of fondant and buttercream, that could match sugary wits with five feet, seven inches of animated, giggling frills. I remarked to her during the second day of Jordan Almond comparison shopping that it was her walk that did it: she was dazzling when she moved, seeming to float along the ground the way she did. “Yes,” she chattered. “It’s been that way since my legs went missing. See?” She lifted one layer of skirt after another in the middle of the World Market candy isle until she had dug out her treasure: there was the shimmering shape of her calves encased in French hosiery, and there were her perfect lace panties, contoured with fullness; yet I could see her front garter strap stretched from thigh-high to belt, and I could see straight through to her back garter strap. Under that exploded cupcake of a skirt, every bit of Cynthia’s underwear was completely hollow, as if it had been starched and sculpted into the shapes belonging to the body of a blushing bride.
“Oh, honey,” I finally managed.
“I know,” she squealed. “Isn’t it the most? I’ll have the smoothest leg of any bride, ever: no shaving required.”
It is now ten days before the wedding, and my cell phone is buried, silenced, in a drawer in my kitchen. I stay with Cynthia now, all hours: since she became her full nuptial ensemble, she won’t let Tom see her; apparently, it’s bad luck. With her fiancée indisposed as such, it’s up to me to help her out, and help is something she needs a lot of since her hands disappeared. (I had told her gloves would be a nice touch when she originally picked her accessories; if only she had listened.) She’s trying to stay chipper about the whole situation, but I know it’s hard for her: I can hear a very un-bridal melancholy wavering when she speaks, in her voice that drifts out to me from the empty air between her sweetheart neckline and the tiara of the veil that floats, suspended, a head’s length above it. I do everything I can think of to cheer her: turn the pages when she browses her Martha Stewart “Wedding” magazines; invite the rest of the girls over for romantic comedy marathon nights. I take changes of clothes over to Tom at the Raddison: I help out. What are maids of honor for?
I suppose the most we can do is hope Cynthia is better before her wedding; it is the most important day of her life, after all.

P.S.- Hey everybody. I (Branden, not the narrator- story's over) hate to title and am much less than talented at it. If anybody ever has a title suggestion, lay it on me- much appreciated.