"I am so lighting this dress on fire." Ava mutters, tugging on the hem of the puce monstrosity her cousin had chosen for a bridesmaid's dress. "Just because puce is one of your wedding's 'colors' doesn't mean you can force people to wear it. And who makes puce one of their wedding's colors, anyway? No one looks good in puce! It doesn't even look good on walls!"

"Stop making a scene, Ava." her mother chides her gently, but there's no stopping Ava when she's on one of her rants.

"Oh no. This is not a scene. This is me politely expressing my dislike of my god-awful bridesmaid's dress." Ava says, viciously adjusting a strap. "A scene would be if I lit it on fire right this second in front of God and the mayor and everybody."

"Ava."

Ava huffs, but reluctantly subsides. The frilly horror-show is going to meet its fiery death in approximately three hours, nineteen minutes, and fifty-six seconds...