On Sundays I like to lazy up with the New York Times; my favorite section, the wedding pages.

I like love stories and weddings are their most beautiful epitome. It arouses my curiosity to explore the mystery on how two different individuals melded into one mind-set, and the amateur writer in me wants to get into the skin of those faces and envision the story of their love.

Enthralled, I let myself go into this spellbinding hunt of romance, glamour, mystery. As an inquiring observer of human nature, I want to glimpse into their lives and capture them at their best and in their best - posing for their everlasting wedding picture, the one special enough to be displayed in the finest place in their homes, and of course, in the highly rated edition of the Sunday newspaper.

As a wannabe Sherlock Holmes, with an imaginary magnifying glass, but not with a pipe, I look at the assortment of these "storyboards": black-and-white photographs perched on permeable white pages, indelible slices of life portrayed in drops of black ink, visual images that leave me dumbstruck and awestruck.

A sea of joyful faces seems to encourage me to sit down, relax, and get to know them. I happily accept and eagerly embark into this true stories love boat.

I concentrate in how they met:

Reunited at ten-year college reunion.
When she fell down the sky slope.
At birth, set up by their respective grandmothers.
At a bar near Yale.
After a musical post-concert meal.
When she lost her umbrella in traffic.
At a funeral.
Etc. Etc.

Some are wedding announcements as well: unassuming head-shots; 2 ½ inches long by 1 ½ inches tall, casual, as if shot spontaneously by a handy friend. I like to go underneath their body language.

A couple smiles with the same intensity, in unison. Their eyes are caught in one same unseen spot, as if a minuscule particle of dust crossed the air at that particular time and they caught it together, the moment frozen in time. Bodies and souls already breathing in harmony.

Sometimes it's only a joyous semi-grin, his right hand softly cupped in her right shoulder, while she coquettishly leans her head to meet his face. Comments are, indeed, not needed here.

Love images solidly frozen into black and white pictures. In its naked simplicity they take a life of their own, they replace speech and transcend description. As the persons they represent, each one has a soul; each one sends a message, each one will to be a perennial reminder of two individuals united at a unique moment on their lives.

Yet, I wonder at the survival of these pictures, let's say, ten years from now, will this image be shown in a predominant place in their homes, or it will be forgotten, tired and haggard on a bottom's drawer, or suffocated in a box that was carelessly thrown in the attic, or worse, torn apart, lifeless, the symbol of a love that died. Pensively I wish all of them the best.

Now is time to come back to my own reality. Time to revisit my own little love story. A hello smile to the simple frame, right there, by the mantle.

Still, bliss.