I was getting married to this girl. She wasn't bad looking. Chocolate colouring, quite small and curvy, and she had a wide friendly face, like the face of a sun. The kind of face that would maybe light up when she was happy. I was glad she was attractive. I wouldn't have wanted to marry just any old muffin. That was a fucked up way to think, I know, but that was what I was thinking as I stood and sweated in a borrowed suit.
She had this long brown and green wraparound dress on, a headscarf in the same stuff, and a bunch of wooden jewellery like you see white college girls wearing. She was Nigerian, she was called Femi. I didn't know much else. I reckoned she must have been about my age, twenty five.
The registrar, a short bald white guy, spoke in solemn tones, 'Solomon Thomas, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?'
It didn't feel like he was talking about me. For a start, no one called me Solomon. It was Sol. The surname never really felt like me either. It was all I ever got off my father.
'I do,' I said.
She said she did too, and we did the thing with the rings. They were borrowed, too.
I lowered my face towards hers. Maybe nobody had told her about this bit, 'cause she flinched, before understanding and turning her face up to mine. I looked into her big brown eyes and kissed her quickly on the lips. Our first touch. Soft lips.
A big open book sat on one of the side desks. We walked over, unsure of ourselves, where to stand, where to look. We signed our names. She had big round writing too.
That was it. Now we, me and that woman stood next to me, we were man and wife. It was just words and pieces of paper. I was doing her a favour. She was doing me a favour. I told myself it was no big deal.
'Photos,' said the registrar, and for a second I thought he'd sussed me. But he was only on about recording the happy event. That was Pug's cue. The only other person in the room, he was standing at the back, holding my camera, the Nikon with the busted side.
'Look at me, star,' said Pug, fiddling with the camera. He was messing with the aperture setting, trying to look like he knew what he was doing. Flash. 'That's right. Lovely. And again.' Flash flash.
Pug snapped me head on. Me, I would have gone for a side shot and got high up, the pen at the centre and the big back of my shaved head black against the white page.
I stood up, Femi sat down, and Pug fired another salvo. What did he think I was going to do with the photos? Stick them on top of the telly? But he was getting right into his role, like he always did.
I'd have shot her from below, and caught the uncertain smile that didn't reach her eyes, cut off the faces of the men standing around her. I thought like that, in pictures. I put borders around things. Reality was messy and confusing but if you gave it an edge you could get it neat. If you cut things out and framed them maybe they'd start making sense.