I totally wish I had a typewriter that I used for my writing. Anyway, I want to be better about implementing a structure writing regime into my world, and anyone close to my age knows the best place for accountability is the internet. Thus was born friday fiction. I’m not promising every Friday, but I am promising most Fridays. So, you know, if you hate my unedited, mostly-raw fiction, then Friday is a good day to skip. Hater.
“What about this pose?”
I adjust my arm further behind me, shifting my weight slightly.
“Very nice, just tilt your head a little to the right, point your chin towards me, look up and to the side. Perfect.”
“Okay I think we got all the shots we need, so if you want to walk around for a bit I’ll have the photos ready for you to view in about fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll be back soon!”
I walk off, and it’s all a routine. For me, at least. This photographer is a little new, and I know she finds it strange. Today I’m still in my work scrubs, no makeup, and my hair a greasy mess. Why, she must wonder, do I want a photo of this?
It’s not about want, I would tell her. I would tell all of them, that is, if I could. The first photographer I worked with, she’s adjusted to my ways and accommodates me without demanding a reason. She tells the new employees that I have an addiction, and this is an explanation that works well for everyone involved.
If only it were that simple. I’ve done my usual lap around the rest of the store, admiring what little new stock there is from yesterday and revise my mental shopping list appropriately. Due to the nature of my situation, I’m used to imposing strong limits and boundaries upon my own wishes. I only permit myself shopping once a month in this store, and today is not the day for that. My palms are itching by the time I return to the new photographer, and I don’t dare unclench them. I know what I’ll see. The grainy skin particles as they slowly begin their dissolution will be subtle for another hour or so, but any time after that and my situation will be impossible to hide. I need to return home soon.
The photographer looks up at me, and I see the scatterbrained anxiety that always managed to accompanies new staff members. She isn’t the first I’ve had to train. I smile at her understandingly, but not too widely. I am beginning to feel the same grainy
“I’m almost finished with the last corrections,” she muttered, anxiously importing the last photos as she prepares to show me her work.
I scan them over with my trained, apathetic eye. Any will do, but I’ve learned that less questions are asked if I show favoritism amongst the images. I watch the new photographer’s eyes with more focus than I gave the photographs, and noted when her eyes sparkled with pride.
“What about this one,” I asked, pointing to a pose she had put me in. “What do you think about this one?”
“Oh, I like it.” She did an effective job of professionally swallowing most of her pride, allowing for only a small indulgence. “It’s actually my favorite.”
“Yeah? I like it too. What color matting do you think I should pick?”
She offers her thoughts up freely and I defer to her opinion. I remind her that I want the photograph printed on site and she adjusts the settings accordingly. I watch as she walks towards the staff door. My palms are still tingly and now I can feel the space behind my ears begin to itch. It is imperative that I get home soon. The trip I had planned on making to the grocery store for restocking my kitchen will be postponed until tomorrow.
In less time than I had expected, but in more time than it usually takes, the girl returns with the folder containing the image I ordered. We complete our transaction with the exchange of money and pleasantries, and I am on my way.
Driving home is difficult. The process increased its speed tonight, and I manage the drive with only four of my original ten fingers. I also must manage without the top half of my left foot, extending from the tip of my toes to halfway up the arch. It does not hurt, as I so often expect; there is only a slight tingling sensation. I am grateful I don’t drive a stick.
to be continued