28 days… six hours… 42 minutes… 12 seconds

More fiction, this time some scratch-fiction from Everything Comes Together at 2 am

“Who’s Frank?”

“Hmm?” Jennifer didn’t raise her head from the computer. “Frank? I don’t know any Frank

“From the photo.” Neil flipped over the page of the album, not really interested, but then he came across the second one. “Here he is again. Look,” Neil lifted the photo and waved it to attract her attention.
“Oh, that Frank.” Realisation dawned in Jennifer’s voice, “He’s no one. Well, I mean, obviously he was someone, but it isn’t important.” She got to her feet and crossed over, slipping the photo out of Neil’s fingers and replacing it in the photo album.

Curiosity got the better of Neil, “But why do you have a photo of him? It looks anceint.” He inspected the sepia tones, trying to figure out how old. But he really couldn’t tell one fashion decade from another.

Jennifer blinked at him, “I just like the photo, that’s all. I found it in a old second hand book. Years ago. Don’t you think its nice?”

“It’s odd. That’s what it is. Having a photo of someone from the past. Someone you don’t even know. I don’t get it.”

“He’s just interesting,” Jennifer insisted, part of her wanting him to admire this photo of Frank. Another part of her mind telling her to just let it go. “Don’t you think he has an interesting face?”

Neil picked the photo up again, stared hard at the seated figure. Frank stared back, a slight smile on his face. Almost as though he knew something Neil didn’t. He noticed the perfect hair, the waistcoat. The dickybow. He shrugged, “Just a photo of some dude who is probably dead at this stage.”

Jennifer stared at him for a moment, then smiled, “I suppose you are right. But I like it,” she snapped the photo album shut, “I really have to get back to work,” she indicated the computer screen.

“Sure thing. I’ll let myself out.” Neil took the hint.

After he’d left Jennifer waited a few moments, just to make sure he wasn’t coming back. Then she opened the photo album and took out both photos. She stared at them silently for a moment, a whispered “Frank” escaping her lips. She took a deep breath.

If she closed her eyes she could still see Frank the day those photos were taken. They weren’t old. They were simply props. Frank always wanted authenticity for his characters. Whether that meant a shaven head, or a period photograph he was never willing to skimp on the details.

Jennifer smiled fondly as the detail of the chair Frank’s hand rested on caught her eye. He had spent hours hunting through bargain shops and antique stores for that piece of furniture. Everything had to perfect for the play.
She turned the photo over to read the note on the back;
All my love, your husband, Frank.