Or so I thought. It was just a job, just a soap opera. A ridiculous one, sure, what with my upcoming wedding to a monkey. The producers said they needed something to bump up the ratings, to keep their advertisers from jumping ship, so they took inspiration from their biggest client, Chiquita, and leaned into it.
Look, they assured me, it’s not like you’ll have to sleep with him. They paused. Unless…
I threatened to call the union. The producers sent me apology flowers the next day.
I got fitted for a wedding dress, which was fun. And I looked good. I was certain I’d use it someday. I even got them to write it into my contract for that season, that I’d get to keep the dress.
Turns out it’s hard to get monkey stink and banana stains out of white satin. But maybe I can salvage some of the material. The veil at least.
Anyway, the wedding aired a couple of years ago, and yeah, the ratings went through the roof. But did it change my life? Not really, no.
And Harvey, humble monkey that he was, he wasn’t affected by any of this either.
Except… every once in a while, I take my wedding dress out of its plastic sleeve and breathe in and wonder if that was as good as it’s going to get.
