Picture Day
by gavin mccall

It’d been only six months ago that he’d had his stroke, but Anthony’s dad still insisted on standing for the picture – not to be outdone by Julia’s father, five years older than him. But Dad’s knees weren’t the only unsteady pair, as beneath Anthony’s dry-pressed slacks, his own seemed about ready to start trembling.
“Ok, ok. Good, everybody,” came the voice from behind the telephoto lens. Pop.
Anthony blinked, blinded. He felt a slight squeeze from Julia’s hand, wrapped around his bicep, no doubt meant to be warm, reassuring. Anthony looked away from the lens and its flashbulb and turned his face down to Julia. A bright yellow dot obscured the center of his vision, making her seem nothing more than a glowing halo of black hair set on a pillar of white lace.
“Ok, and now just the bride’s family,” said the camera’s $4,000-a-day voice, waiting for Anthony’s relatives to be replaced by the remainder of Julia’s. As Anthony helped his father take a seat on the first pew, it was all he could do to remind himself that this was the last price he’d have to pay to get rich.