The Wedding Photographer Took Our Side

How it begins

The photographer asked Ben Rowe to put a hand on his husband's shoulder.

Ben looked at the man beside him. The man looked at Ben. They had met forty seconds earlier while searching for the vegetarian starters.

"Which one of us is the husband?" the stranger asked.

The photographer lowered her camera. "Oh. Sorry."

"No, it's a useful question," Ben said. "I'd like to know before the speeches."

The stranger laughed. He had silver at his temples, a dark green suit, and the air of someone who had already found the nearest exit.

"Theo Keane," he said.

"Ben."

Behind them, a train passed the old hotel platform, its windows briefly reflecting the wedding party in a long band of light. Ben had grown runner beans in broken station planters for three years. He could coax a living thing out of almost anything except the relationship that had brought him here.

His former partner was currently marrying someone with excellent posture.

Theo followed his gaze, then looked toward the other groom.

"Ah," he said.

"Both of us?"

"Apparently they have a type."

Ben waited for that to hurt. Instead it was so absurdly specific that he laughed again.

The photographer took a step backward. "That was lovely. Would you mind if I got one of you together? Just as guests."

Theo turned slightly toward Ben. "Would you?"

It was a small question, asked without pressure. Ben had spent the morning agreeing to things before anyone could notice he was lonely.

"One photograph," he said.

Theo moved beside him. Their shoulders touched. Neither man made the obvious joke.

Through the viewfinder, the photographer's expression softened.

"There," she said. "Exactly like that."

Ben knew she meant the light. He also knew, with an inconvenient certainty, that he was going to remember where Theo's hand rested for the rest of the day.