The newlyweds enter the reception at New York’s Midtown Loft and Terrace. The loft’s solid wood floors gleam under the lights of half a dozen chandeliers, and when the couple arrives, a string quartet begins to play. Waiters emerge from the sidelines like figurines on tracks, circling the room with champagne.

I try to stay out of sight on the sidelines, carefully watching each of the guests, waiting for something special to catch my eye.

The bride beams at everyone gathered around her. She wears a beautiful ivory gown with intricate beading and a never-ending train. Her long blond hair is twisted into sophisticated braids and curls that spill over her bare shoulders. She’s a vision.

As people throw confetti their way, she’s clutching onto her new husband’s hand. The pink-and-white paper settles in her hair. She looks ravishing. As they welcome the couple into the reception, joyful friends and family form a path of well-wishers for the newlyweds to walk down.

If the groom wasn’t a foot and a half shorter than the bride, it would be the perfect shot.

Every time I try to get a clear picture, his head is obscured by the bride’s voluminous veil and tiara. When I switch to the groom’s side of the shot, they look comically mismatched.

I step up onto a nearby chair to try some aerial shots, making the height difference less noticeable.

My assistant videographer, Dennis, circles around the pair as they begin their first dance. As he’s faced with the same dilemma, his eyebrows turn downward in frustration. He ducks up and down in circles around them. The first dance song drifts through the hall.

Ed Sheeran again. Everybody’s crazy for Ed Sheeran these days.

I step down from the chair and crouch to snap pictures from beneath the swirling couple. As the bride and groom waltz toward me, I take a step back—and I feel my cell crunch beneath my heel. It has fallen out my pocket. I can feel shards of loose glass in the heel of my dress shoe.

Fuck. Not again.

I don’t have time to inspect the damage and risk missing a single magical moment of the couple’s first dance. It’s my job to meticulously capture every admiring smile, every teary eye, and each affectionate touch.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Finally, Ed Sheeran’s tortuous crooning comes to an end, and the bride lowers herself to kiss the groom. I furiously take pictures while they’re the same height, then lower my camera for a moment.

Dennis appears at my side, watching back the last few minutes of his video footage, and shaking his head.

“I don’t think they’ve had that much trouble accounting for height differences since they made ‘The Hobbit.’”

I chuckle. “I think I got a couple of good ones in at the end there.”

“Did you see those heels she’s wearing? What in God’s name made her want to wear stilettos?”

“Don’t worry. We got some good shots of them sitting down earlier. There’s not much else we can do.”

I kneel down and pick up my cell. Broken—of course. I sigh and bounce the broken handset up and down in my palm.

Dennis frowns and raises his eyebrows. “Again?”

“I need to invest in a fanny pack.”

“Or get a phone thicker than a tissue.”

“It’s a good model.”

“Not when it’s broken in two.” He takes out his clunky Nokia and shows it to me smugly. “I’ve had it almost eleven years and counting. Indestructible.”

“I’m glad you have better taste in camcorders. Not sure you’d hold down this job for long with a VCR recorder on your shoulder.”

Not that I can talk. It’s going to be back to my backup cell until I can afford to replace this one. Again. Is it just me, or are paid invoices thin on the ground lately? It doesn’t help that I can tell this bride is going to be a pain in the ass.

“She had a twenty-one-item list of demands for today. ‘And if you don’t make it happen, you won’t see a dime.’”

“Bridezillas tend to cool off after the big day,” he reassures me.

“Let’s hope so.”

Dennis grins. “You’re going to struggle to keep up with Tinder without the proper equipment. You’re facing a dry patch, my friend.”

“I have Fifi’s number. I’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way, won’t I?”

“Remind me, what’s the ‘old-fashioned way”?”

“The classic sext.” I grin at him. “Come on, Dennis! Don’t tell me you don’t remember being a horny teenager with your first cellphone.”

“I wrote letters.”

I snort. “Are you kidding me?”

“What? There’s nothing wrong with a bit of old-school romance.”

It doesn’t surprise me. I would bet that Dennis was a band geek in school or leader of the science club. Even now, with his giant square glasses and flat brown hair, most people would probably call him a dweeb.

“You handwrote your sex messages?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I was more a love poem kind of guy.” He laughs at himself. “I thought I was such a Casanova, but it never had the desired effect. Even now, you’re the one with Sophia wrapped around your little finger, while I haven’t had a date in months. Not that you’d know anything what that’s like, King Tinder.”

I try to hide my smile. It was true—I’d had more luck on the dating app than most guys I knew. All it took was a handsome profile picture—and I guess you could say that I wasn’t the worst-looking guy in the world. I’m just touching six-foot-tall, with olive skin clinging to last summer’s tan, and dark blond hair that seems to fall naturally into a style that looks carefully planned. It probably also helps that I work out, and I’m not afraid to flash my abs on my profile.

“Formerly King Tinder. I’m with Fifi now.”

“You are? You’ve stopped seeing the others?”

“I was never really ‘seeing’ them. It was only a couple of dates while I got to know the girls.”

“While you were playing the field, you mean.”

“Just looking for the right woman.”

“Uh-huh. And if you fall into the beds of several others along the way, that’s just how it goes, right?” He makes a face. “You make it look too easy, Cole. So, you’re with Sophia now—sorry, Fifi.” He raises his eyebrows.

“It’s a nickname.”

“She sounds like your pet cat.”

I laugh, then shrug. “I didn’t pick it.”

“When are you seeing her again?”

“I’m not sure. She’s flying out to Milan this week to see her folks.”

“Italian, too. Typical.”

“You could find a nice woman yourself if you lost that chip on your shoulder.”

“And got laser eye surgery and a six-hundred-dollar haircut.”

I focus my lens on a sweet moment between the bride’s parents, snapping them holding hands across the table, then turn back to Dennis. “You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Women appreciate a man with confidence.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Seriously; all it takes is confidence and a little bit of charm. I mean, if this guy can do it—” I point my thumb toward the groom, standing on his tiptoes to share a kiss with the bride— “then a bad haircut shouldn’t stop you. Look. You can tell she’s crazy about him.”

Dennis pats his head self-consciously, then sets his camera to record once more. “Enough of this chat. Shooting weddings is bad enough without hearing about your effortless sexual escapades.”

“You’re right. Shooting weddings is bad enough.”

Dennis casts me a sympathetic smile and returns to recording the party.

I know why he’s looking at me like that. Not so long ago, I was an internationally-renowned photojournalist, traveling the globe and getting ahead of some of the biggest headlines worldwide. I faced searing heat and deadly environments; I had to figure out how to capture once-in-a-generation historical events in clear, sharp, poignant focus. Now, my biggest challenge is how to make two people look kind of the same size.

How the mighty have fallen.