What You Don't See

I am your wedding photographer. I see it all.

Decadent guests arrive in clusters. Heads turn and take in the grounds, the décor. Women fawn over flowers and dresses. Children fight to break away from grownups’ grips.

The deep hum of a cello hushes all chatter. Tuxedo-clad men line the stage, shifting and fidgeting. The groom watches the door and wrings his hands.

Music crescendos and the audience stands. A confection of white appears, a spray of roses bloom at its center. Chiffon rustles as an angel glides toward a man. Dewy eyes are mesmerized by the ephemeral moment. 

Hands join and quivering voices recite their lines as vows are exchanged. Rings slid into place, lips meet and cheers erupt. The violin joins the cello in celebration.

Guests rise and flow into the garden, into the heat of the day. Familiar faces find one another, outstretched arms embrace as kin welcomes kin.

Grandparents squeeze and pinch. Cousins, now grown, introduce girlfriends and boyfriends. Uncles shake hands. A new baby cries; an aunt coos. Estranged spouses exchange stiff smiles.

The sun burns bright. I adjust the exposure to capture practiced smiles. Sweat trickles and tickles my skin. I discern bloodlines, matching families, and lovers, and plus ones to arrange the generations around the newlyweds. Arms loop through arms, hands on shoulders. I will freeze this moment.

Men straighten, women curve, suck in their stomachs. Fingers pick at spray stiffened strands and smooth imaginary wrinkles, prolonging my shot. Smiles waver. Sweat gathers on foreheads.

Click. Click. Click.

I am your wedding photographer. I hear it all.

Family greets one another, always the same.

“You look great!”

“Let me see that baby!” 

“Is this your lovely wife?”

“It’s so good to see you.”

“Your wedding next?”

I move through the crowd, invisible behind my lens. I collect truncated synopses of a dozen life events. Greetings begin with compliments and shared memories, end with career updates and personal accomplishments. I gather an uncle has made partner, a sickly aunt is now on the mend, a rascal bachelor has finally settled down, become a husband. The youngest of one family is all grown up, makes six figures. Another couldn’t come; she just had a baby.

Some news is shared with breathless pride, some with shifting eyes and scuffling of shoes. A wayward son lives somewhere out West now. A married couple of seventeen years has separated, the kids aren’t taking it well. Gray haired relatives inquire about education. A young man explains he no longer wishes to be an engineer; he now works in retail. The subject shifts—what a hot day it is, everyone agrees.

Seated at the fringes, friends and acquaintances exchange, “how do you know the bride or groom?” in lieu of “hello.” Location and occupation dominate the topic of conversation until commonalities build camaraderie. Chatter swells at the outskirt tables, laughter flows like champagne.

Click. Click. Click.

I am your wedding photographer. I know it all.

The bride drapes herself over her husband’s arm, slurs a loud greeting to the nearest table. She teeters in her bedazzled stilettos. I attribute her discomposure to the Xanax she borrowed from a bridesmaid.

The coordinator is pleased that the ceremony went according to plan. I learned the latch on the dove cage had stuck right before the scheduled release, but a guest with a pocketknife came to the rescue. And the birds defecated on no one—another success.  

I steal away with the wedding party for more photos. I pose and rearrange them like life-sized dolls. Dress shirts dampen under rented jackets and mascara smears in the heat. Everyone is starving.

A bridesmaid giggles at a groomsman and bites her lip. He reciprocates with bedroom eyes, finding it hard to believe she is single. His last relationship had ended a year ago and the festivities are amplifying his loneliness. Tonight, he just wants to have a good time. I know she knows this too.

Returning to the reception, I find the caterers are relieved; a timer set in error nearly ruined the entrees. Disaster avoided, they remain on schedule and prepare to serve the guests. Waiters squirm under stress and heat, the kitchen more stifling than the humid summer air. 

Guests mill about. Two women wore the same dress, but they laugh and praise each other’s style. They ask me for a picture.

Click. Click. Click.

I am the wedding photographer. I hear it all.

Lackluster “oh’s” as dinner is served. The diminutive portions juxtapose with the grandeur of the event.

Knives clink against forks as gossip hovers over each plate of lukewarm chicken cordon bleu. Speculations circulate over who is to blame for the failed seventeen-year marriage, or why an uncle not in attendance has declared bankruptcy. Clipped voices judge the decision to let junior take over the family business.

One table over, jetlagged bridesmaids confide in one another, unanimously overwhelmed by the cost of being in the wedding. The honor of being included has no bearing on the price tag of airfare and silk dresses. They fan themselves in the heat.

The groom leads his wobbling bride toward a table of relics—bent, white-haired grandparents and great grandparents who may never attend another wedding. He wants to introduce her to someone, but she whines—she needs a drink first. She pulls him away, toward the sound of glass clinking against glass.

At the bar, a drunken groomsman flirts with a cousin. She mentions she’s in high school and he chokes on whiskey.  

Distant, silent, the groom’s mother remains seated, watching her boy with his lively new bride. She barely speaks to the others. Her husband is skeptical. “She’s a gold-digger. A fake,” he hisses into his glass. He thinks his new daughter-in-law looks suspiciously well-endowed.

Someone announces it’s time to cut the cake. Everyone crowds around the seven-tiered architectural masterpiece of sugar and flour. A bouquet of frosted flowers pours over the layers like a waterfall. I bend near the hands, joined over a gold plaited knife, as they slice into a cloud of buttercream.

Click. Click. Click.

I am your wedding photographer. I see it all.

The groom forks a dainty bite and poises it near his wife’s lips. His smile—gleaming white against a summer tan.

She wavers, unsteady. Glassy eyed with mischief in her smile, she plucks a red icing rose from the top layer of the cake, and mashes it into her new husband’s teeth. He reels, shocked.

Napkin to mouth, he composes himself. He dabs a finger into white frosting and taps the tip of her nose—plays her game. The setting sun offers ideal light for capturing the challenge in her eyes.

She sinks her claws into the grandiose cake. Glossy French tips tinted scarlet, she grinds the glob into his waistcoat, dragging it downward toward his belt-line.

And she laughs.

He stares, slack jawed.

The guests suck in a collective breath.

 A waiter intervenes, waving damp towels like white flags on a battlefield. The groom wipes his face and vest with gritted teeth.

Two groomsmen elbow each other in the ribs, hands over their mouths. A bridesmaid shakes her head and leaves.

A toddler, maybe two or three, mimics the bride and thrusts a clammy hand into the base of the cake. His mother shrieks in horror, apologizing profusely.

Click. Click. Click.

I glance down at my screen and chuckle. Got it.

I am your wedding photographer, and I experience your wedding day in ways you never will. But when I send you the photos, you’ll ooh and ahh and gasp at the crisp scenes, the soft light, and bright complexions. You’ll be pleased with yourself for choosing such perfect colors and will be pleasantly shocked by how good you look. You’ll point to guests in the background you forgot were there and will wish you’d had more time to talk to them. But it’s alright, they look like they had a great time. You’ll spend hours poring over each picture, trying to decide which one you should frame and hang over the fireplace. What a magical day. Perfection.

When you see your pictures, you’ll be blind to reality. You won’t recognize the gross display of vanity that was your special day. You won’t remember the dysfunction. You won’t see the exhaustion on your friends’ faces, won’t recognize disapproval. The concern, the uncertainty in the eyes of those older and wiser, will not register in your own. You won’t see eyes reddened by alcohol. You won’t perceive humiliation in the visage of a groom covered in wedding cake, disappointment in the droop of his lip.

You won’t see the mortified face of a frazzled mother reaching for her pillow-cheeked toddler as he gazes in wonder at the monumental dessert stretching above him.

And you’ll never know what a blazing hot, miserable scorcher your wedding day was.

Because I am your wedding photographer.

And I’m a damned good one.