THE PRIEST LOOKED up from the psalms on the lectern, cast his eyes over the hats bowed before him. Feathered, frilled, felt hats in rows like faces. One at the end of the row different. A head without hat. A cat without fur. A bird without wings. Won’t fly far.
Voices danced in song with the colours of the windows. Red light played along the aisle, blue over the white corsage of Mme Dewsbury, green on the pages of the Bible. Reflecting up on the face of the priest. He spoke to the young lady afterwards: ‘You must wear a hat and gloves in the House of God. It is not seemly otherwise.’
The lady flushed, raised her chin, strode out. ‘That’s the last we’ll see of her,’ said the organist.

The organ rang out, the priest raised his eyes to the rose window. He did not see the woman in hat and gloves advancing down the aisle as though she were a bride. The hat, enormous, such as one might wear to the races. Gloves, black lace, such as one might wear to meet a duchess. Shoes, high- heeled, such as one might wear on a catwalk in Paris.
And nothing else.
(By Judy Parker, from 100 NZ short stories, ed. Graeme Lay. Tandem Press. NZ, 1997)