C
hoosing what to wear to Ahuva’s wedding was complicated. However weird it felt, at that point in time, I was her best friend. Girls wear their fanciest dresses to best friends’ weddings.
But there was no way I was showing up in a wedding hall, where I knew absolutely nobody except the kallah, in a long, chiffon dress. I could just hear the questions: “And you are…?”
Devoiry Braunstein. Ahuva’s best friend, whose name she didn’t know all of three months ago.
I settled on a classy black dress, assuring myself that Ahuva wouldn’t be insulted: Our friendship didn’t depend on a petty thing like fashion.
