As she applied a generous amount of Touche Éclat to the dark circles under her eyes, Nicole pondered her inability to enjoy weddings. She hated it all: the indignity of having to purchase penis-shaped cookie cutters for bachelorette parties; finding that out your friends, many of whom had minored in Women's Studies, were changing their last names; the self-consciously ribald toasts; the passed hors d'oeuvres that tried to appease vegans and Michael Pollan devotees alike and yet satisfied no one.

At least getting married at the Montauk Club had become fashionable and, therefore, convenient. Last month's Montauk Club wedding, the first of three Nicole was invited to this year, had been for Marla, a friend from college. It had included all the requisite hallmarks of a Brooklyn wedding: letterpressed invitations; photobooths, which are as ubiquitous to weddings in Park Slope as chocolate fountains are in the rest of America; and a recitation from E. B. White's Here Is New York during the ceremony. Marla had valiantly tried to set her up with another guest, a bearded graphic designer who had attempted to ironically breakdance to New Order during the reception. As soon as the Baked cupcakes had been distributed, she had gone home alone.

There. She was dressed. She dropped off Toussaint with Jared ("Hi," she said, passing him the leash, and "Bye," and Touss ran off heedlessly into his apartment) and made it to Grand Army Plaza and Miranda's ceremony just as the processional began. There was a faunlike duo singing "I'm Sticking With You."

Miranda had been her coworker at a short-lived magazine called Inventory. They had bonded by being the only two people to decline cocaine after a late-in-the-day editorial meeting and had stayed friendly, but not exactly close, in the years since. She had asked Nicole to be a bridesmaid-and she agreed-but after she received a 1000-word email that began, "Don't make me get all Bridezilla on your asses. I'm three small steps away from making you wear something truly hideous if you don't order your dresses soon," Nicole was forced to call her up and, with as much tact as she could muster, quit the wedding party.

Reverend Winifred Dehner, a priestess and Reiki master from Pillars of HER Traditions, that goddess temple on Staten Island, stepped forward. "Sisters and Brothers," Rev. Dehner began, "Miranda and Lawrence look forward to the day when the civil right of marriage will be extended to all citizens." She went on to read from the Massachusetts Supreme Court decision to legalize gay marriage and followed it up with quotes on the nature of love from Rumi and Dave Eggers.

The ceremony ground on, and Nicole's mind wandered. Who was here? Miranda wore what looked like Lanvin and cried while Lawrence played a novelty song he had written for the occasion called "I Seriously Love You More than I Love Marvin Gaye."

A cover of "Patience" closed out the recessional.

Later, during the dinner, Nicole picked at her poached salmon. She was talking with no one, and her table was half-empty. (Singles.) Miranda came over and kissed her on the cheek. "Sweetie, I'm so glad you came." Miranda made her way down the table. Then Lawrence came over too, and hugged her. He sat down in the empty seat next to her.

"Maybe your next record should be a concept album about marriage," Nicole said. She was trying to be funny.

"I really love Miranda," Lawrence said. "I'm going to stop writing songs about Carrie now and everything."

Carrie had been Lawrence's first wife who had left him for another woman-her Pilates instructor-and he had parlayed his heartbreak into four critically acclaimed albums.

Across the table, Miranda had overheard, of course, that name. Miranda narrowed her eyes at Nicole. Like it was Nicole's fault that the groom was drunkenly invoking his ex-wife at his wedding!

But before she had to think of a response, her phone rang. "I gotta get this," she said and ran into the bathroom. It was Jared.

"Dude, you just saved me from the most awkward conversation ever," she said.

"Hey. Um, I have good news and bad news." Jared always stalled when he was nervous. A few months ago, he had tried to make small talk about "Lost" for ten minutes before he worked up the courage to tell her that he had gotten engaged.

"Just tell me what happened," she said. Her voice echoed in the empty stalls; they were not yet full of hungry young women barfing up champagne cocktails.

"Toussie swallowed this hacky sack at the park," he said, "and now I'm at the vet and we're figuring out how to get it out."

"Fuck. I'll get a cab," Nicole said. "Wait, what's the good news?"

"You get to leave the wedding early."

- Next Week: An Emergency Visit to the Holistic Vet! -

Marisa Meltzer lives in Brooklyn. Her next book, Girl Power, will be published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux in February.