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Jason stood in the narrow, outrageously ornate church corridor, right before the tall double doors beyond which music was already playing. Clutching the hem of a dress that was far too delicate, far too feminine — like every wedding dress — in his cold fingers, he whispered to himself:
— I… thank you all for coming… I'm so happy… I'm so happy…
He stressed the I and happy, lifting his voice, softening his tone, desperately trying to give it that velvety, almost singing gentleness that he imagined a woman's voice should have at a moment like this.
'Shit… still too harsh…' he muttered in his head, dropping his gaze to the cleavage where, artificially rising beneath a thin, almost weightless layer of lace, the fake breast forms protruded — silicone inserts, poorly secured and too obviously different from his skin, which only made the whole thing feel even more ridiculous. There was a clear gap between the "boobs" and his chest, and it wasn't even funny — it was shameful. He saw himself in the reflection and knew he looked absurd. Not like a bride, just like a man in a dress...