The kallah and her mother exchanged quick looks. It was so fleeting I nearly missed it — the mother’s panicky shake of the head, the girl’s pleading eyes
A
gain that English net joke.
“Here, compare these.” Yocheved’s voice trailed through the door of the sewing room, where I was trying to eavesdrop over the rumbling cadence of sewing machines.
I leaned against the wall, tugging at Feuerstein’s muslin sleeve, and pictured the scene. Mother and daughter clustered around my sister, wide-eyed, as Yocheved held up two swatches of tulle, shaking her wrists to demonstrate the difference of how the fabrics fell.
The customers were doubtlessly nodding along, careful to appear enlightened but secretly wondering if there really was a difference between the two identical-looking pieces of white mesh. Not white, of course. Eggshell or vanilla or ivory, or whatever term Yocheved picked to glorify the colorlessness.
I smirked. Tulle was tulle, no matter how delicately you caressed it. Sure, softer and stiffer were personal preferences, but who cared what it was called?
