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“You’ll be late for your own funeral,” his mother used to say. Therefore, Hugh is always early, as he is this afternoon. He sits in the garden amid empty rented tables watching a photographer set up.
“You early, too?” the photographer says. “I would have been sooner but my wife was yelling. As usual.”
Hugh nods. “Oh?”
“You bet. She gets depressed, sobs then yells and accuses me of things. She needs professional help, but she refuses. Buddy, I photograph plenty of weddings and I know marriage doesn’t work.”
Hugh bites his lip.
“You the entertainer?”
“No. The groom.”