She looked at the photo she held in her soft gloved hand, an expression her husband could not fathom on her face. He was getting ready for the event tonight and was adjusting his silk tie when he noticed her looking at it.

"What is that?" He asked.

"An old photograph." She said softly.

"I know that." He said. "I mean, what is it of? Or who?"

"Oh, just an old man."

As he finished adjusting his tie, he walked over, and bent down slightly to look at the picture.

It didn't look very old, the photo at least, he thought as he looked down, though the man in the photo did indeed look ancient. Bald, wrinkled to the point of being pruned, his face worn and tanned, standing in a location that clearly was not in America.

"Why do you have this?"

"Something I got a bit back. I don't quite remember when." She said. "He looks almost content despite his meager surroundings, I think."

He shrugged and scoffed.

"He looks poor. One of those countries that was ravaged by the war, probably. Poor bastard, but oh well, that's the breaks." He said lightly as he finished with his suit.

"Ready?" He asked when he was done.

"Yes, of course." She said. He turned to go and just for a moment her expression changed, a knowing look on her face.

Poor? Ravaged by war? You have no idea, Spiro thought as the man who was supposed to be her husband walked out of the bedroom door. This photograph, he knew, was his only connection to his old life, his old body. He had managed to keep this, a reminder of his old life and what he was before the experiment, before his journey to becoming the socialite wife Martha. This man, he'd never know what that was like, a modern aristocrat that had never worked a hard day in his life. Spiro knew, and as he stood up, he almost wished for those old days again. Almost.