THE WEDDING ALBUM

Anne and Benjamin stood stock-still, as instructed, close but not touching, while the simographer adjusted her apparatus, set its timer, and ducked out of the room. It would take only a moment, she said. They were to think only happy, happy thoughts.

For once in her life, Anne was unconditionally happy, and everything
around her made her happier: her gown, which had been her
grandmother’s; the wedding ring (how cold it had felt when Benjamin
first slipped it on her finger!); her clutch bouquet of forget-me-nots and
buttercups; Benjamin himself, close beside her in his charcoal gray tux
and pink carnation. He who so despised ritual but was a good sport.

His cheeks were pink, too, and his eyes sparkled with some wolfish
fantasy. “Come here,” he whispered. Anne shushed him; you weren’t
supposed to talk or touch during a casting; it could spoil the sims. “I
can’t wait,” he whispered, “this is taking too long.” And it did seem
longer than usual, but this was a professional simulacrum, not some
home-made snapshot.

They were posed at the street end of the living room, next to the
table piled with brightly wrapped gifts. This was Benjamin’s townhouse;
she had barely moved in. All her treasures were still in shipping
shells in the basement, except for the few pieces she’d managed to have
unpacked: the oak refectory table and chairs, the sixteenth-century
French armoire, the cherry wood chifforobe, the tea table with inlaid
top, the silvered mirror over the fire surround. Of course, her antiques
clashed with Benjamin’s contemporary—and rather common—d...