Generation. Gap

Her bile writhes between false teeth and tongue, a feral response to the union of her son to a shop floor harlot who caught him in her web of false lashes and uncouth urban charms. Uncontained disgust lurks like penny lemon drops, acidic in the sheen on her bone china top lip as her fingers whiten their grip on the starched antimacassar that Nana insisted adorn every chair. A well-mannered woman who spared her words and not the cane. Edith practices her rictus grin as she waits for the centre of her world to usher the bride to be in.

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