DWP - misplaced focus

Gregory eyes the redhead in the second row, trying to remember where he had seen her before. When his eyes catch hers, she makes a rather inconspicuous wave and pouts her shiny pink lips, suppressing a smile. Definitely not last night, he assures himself. But where?

For a moment he shifts his eyes towards the crowd, a sea of people with perflexed looks in their faces. He imagines question marks above their heads just like in some Sunday cartoons. Then he hears a buzzing sound, a collective hushed wonderment or puzzlement that spewed out of the people's mouth.

He looks again at the redhead who this time smiles sweetly at him. He smiles back. And that is when he hears Priscilla’s cries. He turns to look at her, leering at him through her white veil. The priest asks him, “Gregory, are you with us?”

Priscilla gathers the enormous skirt of her wedding gown, throws her bouquet of white calla lilies at him, and runs towards the church door. “Son of a bitch, you bastard!” she screams as she runs. “You had to bring her here.”

He felt something heavy and angry hitting his head. Marco, Priscilla’s brother. Suddenly he is looking at the murals in the ceiling, a collage of angels and humans in pastel colors. People are now screaming.

Then it dawns on him: the one night stand in Barcelona. But as he realizes this, Marco’s large and heavy foot comes crashing on his head.