The-Commission
Daniel made his living putting the right words in other men's mouths, which was, he often thought, the only profession in the world where being unloved was a competitive advantage.
He wrote wedding speeches. Best-man toasts, mostly — the panicked groomsmen who arrived at his door three days out with a head full of inside jokes and no idea how to say *I love this idiot* in front of a hundred relatives. Daniel said it for them. He was good at it. He could make a roomful of strangers cry about a man they'd never met, then have them laughing into their dessert before the tears dried. The trick, he'd learned, was that everyone's love story was the same story, told in a different kitchen. You just had to find the kitchen.
His own kitchen, lately, had one mug in the sink and a window that faced a brick wall. He preferred not to dwell on it.
The email came in on a Tuesday, from a name he didn't recognize at a wedding planner's firm he did. *Toast required, reception of approx. 120, warm but brief, brides preference for humour over sentiment.* Standard. He almost replied with his rate before he scrolled to the couple's names.
He read them twice. Then he stood up, walked to the window, looked at the brick wall as though it might have a comment, and came back.
The bride was Priya. *His* Priya — or the Priya who had been his, for three years and one apartment and a cat they'd had to