The dress is too tight and too ruched. (Or whatever the word is.) It cuts across her chest in a weird way and makes breathing in deeply a chore. And dangerous. The hemline is too long for her liking and restricting her stride as she walks. It causes her to waddle and look largely uncoordinated. And the colour.
The colour is a harsh peach. If peach can ever be considered harsh. It’s garish and clashes hugely with the purple dahlias that make up the bouquet she is clasping tightly in both hands and against her chest. At least her shoes are comfortable. She had been allowed to choose her shoes, and had gone with a well worn (but still presentable) pair of nude court shoes that she figured would be the safest bet given the colour of the dress. That damn colour. Peach (pastel in general) had never been her favourite colour and this cemented her dislike.
The corridor she is currently standing (more of a walkway because it’s outside) in is cold. Although that may be because of the breeze whistling around her, the bride and the two bridesmaids in front of her.
There is a clear nervous tension in this moment. While they stand waiting for the doors to open and the music to start. The gradual procession of bridesmaids, to the maid of honour (her), and then the main event. The bride in all her glory.
The idea of walking down that aisle in this dress terrified her. It was ugly, constricting unflattering and made her look like a penguin. And the colour. Why the peach? But it wasn’t her day. It was her sister’s. She cast a glance back, taking in the arches of the walkway, the blue sky with wisps of cloud scattered around and the glaring shine of the sun, her eyes eventually settling on her sister. They shared a smile and her sister exhaled on a laugh of disbelief. Then the doors opened. The bridesmaids walked through them and then she took a deep, yet constricted, breath and made her way towards the altar.