Mira's stomach, which had been staging an aggressive protest through the thunderous roars of a diesel tractor engine, had finally reached peak fury. With whatever fragments of sanity she had left after the near-disastrous stomach-growling incident near the pillar, she decided that her sole survival strategy was to submerge her mounting humiliation in an ocean of free food.

Hence, adopting a lopsided, limping gait—since her right foot was still crippled without a heel—Mira dragged her baby pink tulle gown through the crowded sea of wedding guests toward the most sacred zone of any matrimonial reception: the Main Buffet Table.

There, lined up in pristine rows, sat an array of luxurious dishes radiating mouth-watering aromas. There was steaming oxtail soup, rich and savory mutton curry, jumbo butter-garlic prawns, and a dedicated Madura chicken sate station complete with billowing clouds of charcoal smoke whose scent successfully made Mira’s mouth water intensely behind her crimson lipstick.

"Focus, Mira. Forget Satya, forget Vanesha, and forget the horrified glares of the judgmental aunties over in the corner," Mira coached herself mentally, carefully smoothing down her Super Saiyan bangs, which had drifted slightly to the left. "The single most important objective right now is rescuing my digestive tract from premature extinction."

Mira immediately joined the queue for the sate station, which occupied the most strategic corner of the room. Standing right in front of her was a pot-bellied gentleman clad in a batik shirt featuring traditional mega mendung cloud patterns, meticulously loading up his plate with the cold calculation of an open-heart surgeon.

Blinded by intense hunger and overly fixated on the thick skewers of meat being fanned by the catering staff, Mira momentarily lost all situational awareness. She tried striking an artificially graceful pose—standing tall with one hand propped on her hip and the other holding an empty plate—even though her stiff, immovable concrete updo made her posture resemble a malfunctioning robot.

"Ah, the scent of that peanut sauce is genuinely calling out to my starving humanitarian soul," Mira thought, her eyes sparkling with joyful anticipation.

Just as the caterer finished grilling a fresh portion of warm sate and ladled a generous, thick brown pool of peanut sauce mixed with sweet soy sauce right over the gentleman's plate, the situation violently unraveled.

The plump gentleman suddenly pivoted around with a sharp, abrupt motion, intending to grab a side of compressed rice cakes (lontong) from the neighboring table without checking his blind spot. His right elbow swung freely through the air like a helicopter rotor blade.

At that exact microsecond, Mira, leaning forward eagerly to get a better look at the chicken sate, was caught completely off guard. Her overthinking reflexes kicked in with the wrong directive: instead of dodging backward, she instinctively stepped forward while lifting her empty plate high in the air.

Thud!

The mega mendung gentleman's elbow struck Mira’s right arm dead-center. The physical impact triggered a classic, devastating physics domino effect.

The plate in Mira’s hand jerked violently, causing the serving spoon loaded with a sloshing puddle of thick peanut sauce and sweet soy sauce—just freshly scooped by the gentleman beside her—to fly loose from the buffet bowl.

Time inside the luxury ballroom seemed to stretch out for a fraction of a second. Mira caught a clear glimpse of crushed roasted peanut granules floating gracefully through the open air like tiny meteorites catching a warm brownish gleam beneath the crystal chandeliers.

And the next split second...

Splat!

The pool of dark brown peanut sauce, sweet soy sauce, and rendered sate oil landed smoothly, mercilessly, and entirely without remorse dead in the center of Mira’s precious baby pink dress.

Silence descended upon the sate station. Even the romantic orchestral music drifting from afar seemed to cut off its melody out of sheer respect for the unfolding national tragedy.

Mira froze solid.

She slowly lowered her head, staring down at the colossal, irregularly shaped brown stain—which bore a striking resemblance to the island of Borneo—now proudly decorating the front of her expensive rented baby pink tulle gown. The rich, toasted aroma of warm peanuts and sweet soy wafted straight up to her nose, cementing the bitter reality that her day had officially hit rock bottom.

The batik-clad gentleman’s eyes bulged out of his head. He yanked his arm back hastily, his face twisting into an expression of unmitigated panic. "Oh goodness, miss! I am so sorry, I swear I didn't mean to! My arm just made a reflex move for the lontong!" he blurted out frantically, his hands darting around in search of napkins.

Mira didn't utter a single word. She stood stiff as a department store mannequin that had just survived a regional sauce spill. Her Super Saiyan bangs gave a single, involuntary twitch, while her falcon-brow arches angled downward in a fierce, trembling mixture of murderous rage and the desperate urge to burst into absolute, sobbing tears.

"My... my expensive rented dress..." Mira whispered in a frail, raspy voice on the verge of breaking, watching the sate peanut sauce slowly seep deeper into the delicate layers of tulle fabric.