Hollow and larger than life-size, the BS invites entrance (“he entered her”) though of course there are rumors that the voluminous folds of that livid gown bedecked with bleached flowers conceal an event horizon or two, and we’ve all heard that not everyone who goes in comes out again. You told me that story, I think. But it’s true that the silence in the dress — despite busloads of tourists — remains “profound.” There are always lonely corners where you can vow (with a distant whispered echo) to love forever in sickness and so forth, your blush (if suspected) well hidden in the gloom. But it is a little dank: you’ll want to wrap yourself well in the synthetics, taking advantage of the flowing white ponchos — available for a nominal fee — of Banlon and Bridalace. Visitors to the BS are given flashlights disguised as bouquets: silhouettes of blown roses and broken baby’s breath cross and blur on the high blank walls; there are also those huge glowing Lucite solitaire rings for purchase. Thawing slices of vanilla cake slathered in butter-cream (each in a monogrammed doggie bag) are stacked on a table by the door: take one in case you do get lost. No one who’s been once would need to return, would they? I think you asked me that. Rumors of a discovery whose urgent importance is measured by the frequency with which it can be repeated (oh happy happy etc.) mostly prove to be false, or at least it seems that the discoverer — sooner or later — has vanished, along with the funding for research and development.
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