One sentence: 301 words

She wondered what type of people would actually want to get married in a museum.

Then, she saw the photograph: tall, neat, thin groom with a bride who was short with had a bold frame and a round face. Both of them wore wire rimmed spectacles. Gemma supposed they were just the type of people she expected would get married in a museum. They certainly conformed to the nerd-like stereotype she would have imagined had she known you could be married at a museum before today. But, this wasn’t just any museum – here, there was a sixteen foot Tyrannosaurus Rex that you could be married beneath, and a gallery stuffed with, well, stuffed animals where you could host the reception, not to mention an entrance way with a large statue of the Buddha looming over you.

Gemma politely made her way through each of the stalls, tasting cakes, sampling wines and collecting brochures. She made sure that she was very non-committal about any questions she was asked: no, the venue hadn’t been decided yet; yes, sponge cake would be nicer than fruit; no, she’d never thought of being married in a medieval gown, but she would certainly have a think about it. No-one even seemed to notice she was there alone, or that she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring, or even asked where her partner was. It appeared perfectly natural for a recently-jilted girl to be prowling around a wedding fayre on her own, trying to imagine what her second best wedding would look like – after the previous ‘perfect’ wedding had fallen through. Although, Gemma realised, perhaps the next time – providing the groom showed up – things would be even more beautiful, maybe Gemma would outdo the original dream and create an entirely new form of spectacular wedding day on her next attempt.

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