The photographer called again. “Just checking in. Are you okay?”
He had been calling everyday for the past week, leaving the same message: “It’s terrible. Just terrible.” I answered today, figuring that if he hadn’t caught his error by now, he never would.
“Are you sure you have the right number?”
“I’m sure. How are you holding up?”
“Um. Excuse me?”
“And this close to the wedding,” he continued to himself. “I’ll return your deposit. You’re dealing with enough.”
“We got married in December of last year.”
He paused: “I don’t think so…” His voice trailed off into confusion.
“I’m positive. You took our photos. My favorite one is on my desk.” Her head on my shoulder, my hand creeping up her dress; we looked like models in a perfume advertisement. The me in the picture stared back at me. Was he as confused as I was?
“Look, K,” the photographer whined. “It was on the news.”
I hung up and read on the internet about my wife’s death. I read, too, about our imminent vows.
I looked back at our picture. The me in the photo looked upset now, his hand continuing it ascent up my wife’s wedding dress.