smattering

I was temping at a company where a photographer whom the company employed was being fired for some kind of indiscretion.  I had been there long enough to believe, along with several other people in the company, that whatever had happened was not directly his fault.  However, the event had already made headline news, the company was in uproar, and the photographer was being fired, no matter what.  I wandered from room to room as meetings were held, people talked about it in small groups, and no real work got done.  I had no idea what to do with myself.

Jump.  You are marrying a woman – who is already married and much older than you – for her insurance, because you have none and are very ill.  Ill enough to be life threatening, but something which can be managed well by the treatment which good insurance will get you.  You have no other choice, you must marry this woman.  I wonder why you do not marry me, because I have good insurance, then remember that it’s not really mine, I’m still a dependent on someone else’s insurance, and I recognize anyway that this is the best thing.  You have told only me and picked me to be your witness to the whole affair.

When we get to the place where the ceremony will take place the priest is ready and the woman and her other husband are there.  The woman is married to the photographer who got fired from my job.  Though it has only been a couple of days since I last saw him, the photographer’s hair has turned grey and he looks years older.  He recognizes me and we shake hands.  The woman seems dispassionate, refuses to look at anyone.  I am not sure why she has agreed to do this.  I hold your hand.  You are shaking, sweating, white, drawn.  I ask you if you’re shaking and you cannot speak.  I hold your arm in my arms, partly to steady you in case you fall, and partly to comfort you.  I don’t know whether you are shaking because of the illness or because you are overcome with the emotion of having to do this.

The priest marries you and the woman.  She and her photographer husband get in one car, we get in a limosine.  Suddenly, though you had been dressed in a full suit and tie during the ceremony, you are without a shirt and your blazer is open.  I sit with my arms around you, you stroke my left arm with your left hand, your fingers are white as snow.  We are flipping through the photos you had taken with the woman you just married, photos of the wedding and honeymoon that had been faked, just in case the insurance company happened to need evidence that you were really married.  I stroke your bare chest, you seem calmer than before, but still you do not speak.  I feel happy, because you are depending on me.