Extract:

Poppy and James’s wedding was throat-closingly romantic: at sunset, on the banks of a river, then, later, twinkling lights in a barn filled with hay bales and naked wooden tables covered with artisinal bread and cheese, and jugs of cheap wine, and flowers plucked from the veld.

We were newly grown up and at that point in our young lives where we were contemplating big things — buying houses and washing machines and finding well-paying jobs and changing cars to fit baby seats.

And marriage.

Poppy and James’s wedding was throat-closingly romantic: at sunset, on the banks of a river, then, later, twinkling lights in a barn filled with hay bales and naked wooden tables covered with artisinal bread and cheese, and jugs of cheap wine, and flowers plucked from the veld. We were newly grown up and at that point in our young lives where we were contemplating big things — buying houses and washing machines and finding well-paying jobs and changing cars to fit baby seats. And marriage. Poppy and James (not their real names) were among the first of us to enter into the sacrament of holy matrimony. Against the backdrop of rustic charm, they looked into each other’s eyes and made promises to love and honour and cherish each other forever. They agreed to support each other in sickness and in health. They said they would be there through good times and bad. We, their friends, had envied the steadfastness of their relationship that began when we were undergrads — teenagers to whom the...

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