Annoyed by the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of her keys Emily Taylor stood in the middle of her living room seeking a glint of metal under the couch, a peek of blue leather behind a lamp, anything that would pinpoint the exact location of her wayward keychain. As she pulled on her hot pink wool coat she noticed her dog Holly lounging on her dog bed beaming "you want to pet me" signals from across the room.
"Hol, have you seen my keys?" She asked while expecting no answer, Hol was after all, just a dog. A smart, manipulative dog, but severly lacking when it came to ferreting out lost objects- Uless the lost object smelled like steak.
Pausing in her search Emily bent down to rub Hol's tummy and as the dog squirmed in near-ecxtasy she heard the sound of metal-on-metal muffled by fur. Shoving a hand under the squirming dog Emily fished around until she felt warm steel and stood victorious, lost keys located and firmly in hand. Sparring a brief moment she pondered how the keys had ended up on Hol's bed a good 6 feet from the table she usually threw them she eventually shrugged, giving up on the mystery of the locomoting keys. Keys relocated themselves all the time- It was just a fact of life.
And now that the keys were returned to her she could finally point her automatic starter in the general direction of her car, which she did with relish. Michigan winters made for a miserable time driving while waiting for the heat to kick in and warm the car, even a small car like her little ZX2 that didn't have much interior space to heat. Stuffing the keys in her pocket, Emily checked the dog's bowls to ensure Hol had enough food and water for the day, grabbed her purse and laptop bag, pulled on her gloves, and gave Hol one last, quick tummy rub before heading out the door.
Technically, she was late for work, but because she worked for herself she didn't feel at all bad about sitting in her car for a moment to admire the cute bungalow cottage she rented (with the option to own) on Lobdell Lake. It was a huge step up from the crummy apartment she'd first rented after her Ex husband had informed her that he had decided to take up with a Japanese interpreter he worked with five years ago, and she was proud of what her hard work had earned her.
She was even a bit thankful that her marriage of 9 years had ended because without that ending she wouldn't have taken her Nikon and a hobby and slowly built up a photography business that she owned and had recently opened a store-front in Brighton. She wouldn't have been the mildly sucessful, happy, indipendant woman she was today at 31 if it hadn't been for that Asian hussy. Thanks to the Asian hussy and her unfaithful Ex she had everything she'd ever wanted.
Well, almost everything, she thought as she shifted her car into drive and pulled out onto Haviland Beach Drive. She was still lacking someone to share her life with, and although Hol was a great cuddler and was capable of playing a mean game of fetch, she had really shoddy conversation skills and was just not "Significant Other" material. And BOB, as trusty as he was and as well as he got the job done... And as much as she joked to her girl friends about dating her vibrator, he just wasn't relationship material either.
Sighing, she stopped at Lobdel Lake Road and quickly dialed up her favorite Pandora station on her phone. As she made the turn Cracks by Freestylers began blarring from the car's speakers and she decided that perhaps she would go on a date with that guy her friend Tracey had been trying to play hook-up fairy with... Emily thought, What's the worst that could happen?
Six miles later she was cursing herself for tempting fate, for not filling up her car on the way home the night before, and for forgetting that she needed to buy gas ASAP. As the car sputtered it's way off the exit ramp from US23, she crossed her fingers. While it jerked and gasped for fumes across the bridge she found herself rocking in her seat to encourage it- Just a few more feet! she repeated in her head to the gasoline gods.
20 feet from the pumps she finally turned off the engine, shifted the car into neutral, and resigned herself to doing the vehicular equivilant to The Walk of Shame- Pushing You Car To The Pump. Opening the door she stepped out, got a good grip on the body of the car with one hand, the powerless steering with the other, and put her back into it. Thankful that the car was light and muttering unflattering words to the two rednecks standing beside their Fuck The Enviorment pick-up truck, she finally got the car alongside a pump.
Pulling her wallet from her purse Emily walked around the car and groaned at the sign plastered over the credit card reader:
Sorry! Come inside too pay with credit :(
Mumbling about rednecks, busted credit card readers, and bad luck in general Emily ventured into the gas station only to find that there was nobody at the register. Cranky and impatient she gave vent to her frustrations with a not quite under the breath tirade about inept hicks who worked gas stations in BFE. She'd just gotten to the part about multiple generations of inbreeding and its effects on the offspring of such unions and how unsuited those offspring were to jobs in the service industry when a voice behind her said, "Bad day?"
Startled, Emily made a the same noise that she's imagine a ferret woud make if it were suddenly stepped on (unflattering and squeaky), turned a shade of pink that clashed terribly with her freckles, and spun around on her heel (knocking over a display of over-ripe bananas) to face the speaker.
He was cute, which made the pink, squeaky, clumsiness even worse. She gave a half-assed laugh and bent down to pick up the fallen fruit in an attempt to escape her embarassment and his cuteness. From behind the curtian of her brown hair she replied, "It didn't start out bad, which makes the recent bad turn of events even worse. I ran out of gas on the expressway and had to push my car into the lot, and now whatever dolt that works here isn't working..."
As the cute stranger bent down to help her, she sighed. "I just put my foot in it, didn't I?"
"Well, I think I'm more of a dork than a dolt, but yeah. You did just preform a 'foot in mouth' maneuver. If it were an Olympic event, you'd probably medal." he said as he finished helping her put the babanas back in the stand- But it was said with a laugh in his voice so she had some hope that he wasn't going to over-charge her for fuel.
Rising, she watched him walk around the counter, and as she cursed her malfunctioning brain-to-mouth brake she couldn't help but notice that his bottom end filled out his jeans rather nicely, and the loose hoodie he was wearing couldn't disguise the fact that his shoulders were fairly wide and tapered in to a slim waist. Sucking up her social faux pas embarassment, she took a moment to look over the view offered from the front of him: Slightly shaggy dark blonde hair, nice eyebrows, the sharp cheekbones and long narrow nose often seen in guys of Nordic decent, a full lower lip, and a scruffy little chin beard.
Her first impression hadn't done him justice, he was rather hot if you liked the slender North Man look, which she did. When he looked up, she looked down and began fishing for her credit card. Passing it over the counter so he could run the card their fingers touched and she felt that sudden charge in the air that she had heard sometimes happens when two people who have great chemisty touch. When he fumbled the hand-off and dropped the card she suspected he had felt it too.
And just as she thought he was about to say something, the truck-admiring, lady in distress not-helping rednecks decided to put in a loud and unwelcome appearance. Emily shot them a look to convey what she thought of their unchivolrous behavior and unwelcome interruption, but it was too late. Whatever energy had been in the store, it was gone. When the clerk handed back her card she scurried out the door, giving him a weak wave to his "I hope your day gets better."
Later at work, as she edited unsightly blemishes from the faces of teens who were not thrilled to be posing for Holiday pictures, whitened the teeth of folks who drank too much dark cola, and tweaked other, various things that would mar the perfection of the family portrait she chalked up her reaction to Mobil Boy as a school-girl crush. He was cute, she was thinking about looking, and he happened to be the first guy she looked at. It wasn't a big deal. It wasn't any sort of deal at all.
He's probably married to some skinny trailer-park trash bitch and has a gaggle of mini clerks running around in their Wal*Mart brand diapers and little else, she thought, and then winced at how horribly stereotypical that sounded. And jealous, she admitted after a moment. She sounded like a jealous teenager. Sticking her tounge out and making gagging noises, Emily returned to her efforts to beautify the families of Livingston County and put nommy Mobil Boy firmly out of her mind.
Annoyingly, Mobil Boy wouldn't stay out of mind. When she went to the bathroom she found herself inspecting the image she saw in the mirror: Her green eyes, too-long nose, the heavy dusting of freckles courtesy of some Irish heritage, dark brown hair that fell to the middle of her bra cups and curled over and around them. Taking a step back she assessed her figure: Her brests were still fairly high on her chest, though that owed more to Vicky's Secret than gravity-defying mammary tissue. Her figure was nice, she had the classic hour-glass proportions even if they were proportionately larger than what she would like them to be. As she ran her hands through her hair she wondered how he saw her and grimaced at her reflection.
Driving home she found herself glancing at the Clyde Road exit towards the gas station as she sang along to Frou Frou's Strict Machine. Resolutely she stepped harder on the gas pedal to put the store and the guy behind her faster, and turned up the car's stereo to drown out the niggling little "He's so yummy!" voice in her head.
At home she almost decided to microwave a frozen diet-friendly dinner and threw it in the trash when she realized that she was only thinking of eating skinny food because she might like a boy. In defiance she instead baked a frozen pizza and made stupid happy-kitty faces at the cheesey, greasy bliss of it.
She called Tracey and agreed to meet the "great" guy while on a double date with tracey and her current beau. Thrilled, Trace exponded on how awesome the guy, whose name was Jim, was. How he had a great job working for the FDA, owned a nice house and a new car, and was financially solvent and willing to settle down. Emily made all the right noises in the right places, told Tracey that she'd call back tomorrow night to get the details for the outting, and ended the call as quickly as she could without making Tracey feel that she hadn't recieved enough talk time.
When Hol appeared with her favorite rag tug toy, Emily spent a solid fifteen minutes on the floor growling, tugging, winning the toy and then "losing" it. Hol was delighted and took advantage of the sudden show of puppy parent interest to finagle a belly rub, two treats, and a brisk walk down the street and back. Stated, she arranged the cushions on the back of the couch to form a lovely dog-nest and fell asleep.
Emily suffered through an unfortunate programming coincidence that made it seem as if every channel was playing something romantic, couple-inspired, or sickeningly lovey before turning off the telivision and heading to the shower. She sang, "Gonna wash that man right out of my hair" in a symbolic and off key attempt to do just that. When she was done and Pantene's man-removing capabilities had been given a complete work-out she set the alarm on her phone and crawled into the cold sheets.
When the thought crossed her mind, I wonder if slender guys put out a lot of heat in bed? she rolled over in disgust and burried her head under the blankets.
The next morning Emily's mood wasn't much improved. In fact, it might possibly have been worse as her dreams had featured some especially wild and kinky exploits with a namess, but familliar, blonde guy. Reaching down, Emily was perturbed to find that she was wet, and not just wet- The sort of wet seen only in bad porn or read about in equally bad erotica. Running her fingers over her still-excited clitoris she gave a passing thought to a quick wank but then thought better of it. She did not want to be fondling herself while thinking about Mobil Boy. Her mind and body did not need that sort of encouragement.
Grumpy, she reluctantly crawled out of bed and pulled on a pair of dark wash jeans, a graphic tee that displayed a picture of a cat and dog writing on lined notebook paper witht he caption "No animal testing," her favorite velvet blazer and a pair of Converse. Thankful that photographers could get away with being quirky (and somewhat lazy on occasion), she pulled her hair into a low tail and slapped on the most minimal amount of makeup she could wear while still feeling like she'd made some sort of effort.
Going through the motions of getting ready for work she engaged in a one-sided discussion with the dog, which was perhaps a bit less than entirely sane, but seemed to help by getting the thought in her head voiced aloud.
"This is stupid," Emily state to Hol, who appeared interested.
"It's just a crush. A brief fixation." Wisely, Hol held her own council.
"I bet that if I saw him again, he'd be hideous. It was probably just some trick of the lighting, exertion, and gasoline fumes that made him look good." Uninterested by the excessive people noise and the lack of crunchies Hol retreated out the slightly too small dog door (installed by the previous tennants) with a bit of effort.
Not noticing that her audience had vacated the room, Emily carried on speaking only to herself. "I am not a Sophmore in high school!" she stated as she pushed the toaster's lever down with more force than was strictly necessary before noticing that Hol was gone.
"Crappy conversation skills." she muttered before pulling the butter from the fridge and pouring a cup of caffine from the pot that had automatically started brewing just before she woke up.
After the toast and coffe Emily felt better about the world and the place that good-looking clerks had in it: Great for eye candy and that was it... If he was in fact eye candy material.
She climbed into her car with all of her work detrious and started Pandora she muttered, "He's probably got butt zits" before launching into Foster the People's Call It What You Want, mostly in or on key.
8 minutes later...
Emily found herself mumbling under her breath, "Oh shit. He is that nommy." as she pretended to be in desperate need of caffine, a cellophane-wrapped muffin, and a package of Lifesaver mints. Waiting in line she rethought the mints (Fuck. What if he thinks I have chronic bad breath or something?) and ditched them in the even more ripe banana basket. She shuffled her feet, blushed like a twitterpatted tween, and sighed heavily. She couldn't remember if this crush business had been quite so annoying in high school.
Reaching the front of the line Mobil Boy took her stuff and began punching codes into the register before glancing up.
"Oh, hey. You having a better day today?" he asked. She couldn't tell if he was smirking or smiling.
"Yeah. Way better." Emily replied before handing over a 5 and waiting for her change. When their fingers brushed as he handed back her dollar and twenty-three cents she felt like all the oxygen had suddenly been sucked from the room. Zing! Tingle! Zap! Fearful that if she opened her mouth something idiotic and supremely cringe-worthy would emerge she fled the store like the hounds of hell were hot on her sneakered heels.
Within the safety of her car she rested her head on the steering wheel and snarked to herself, "Yeah. Way better"? that's all you could manage? Jeebus, Em. Way to impress him with your verbosity, shining wit, and stellar awesomeness. He's sure to remember you fondly. "Ugh. Why have I suddenly become so inept?"
Despondantly fishing her keys out of her pocket and watching her despondant hand stick them in the ignition she gave serious thought to becoming overly emo over the entire fiasco. Pondering dying her hair black and adopting a deep side part she squawed (like a crow being hit mid-flight by a frisbee) when someone rapped on her window.
Picking up her head she found, to her ever-lasting mortification, that Mobil Boy was standing outside her car. Emily rolled down her window, and rolled it down and rolled it down some more and felt an unaccostomed embarassment to be driving a car that didn't have power windows.
"Here," said Mobil Boy, looking slightly smug and hot, "You forgot your muffin."
"Muffin?" Emily managed.
"Sort of like a cupcake? But bigger?"
"Oh God. You must think I'm such a tard." she said and resumed her head on steering wheel, despondant, soon-to-be emo position.
She heard a crinkling noise as the muffin was placed on her dashboard, and Mobil Boy's voice saying, "Actually, that's not what I think at all."
By the time she played that over in her head at light speed aproximately 43 times, analyzed his tone, wording, and muffin-bringing, and looked up he was already more than half-way back to the store and... swaggering? Did he want her watching his beyond-prefect, denim clad bottom end?
Throwing her hands into the air as far as the car's low roof would allow (which wasn't very far) she made some inarticulate, frustrated noise "Gah!" before starting the car, rolling up the window, and removing herself from the temptation to chase him back into the store. The muffin, forgotten, made it's way into the passenger side foot well, never to be seen again.
Working, or trying to work, Emily kept playing that parting remark over in her head.
That's not what he thought? What did he mean? Was she not a tard but it was a neutral and not possitive thing, or was she so tardish that it crossed over the line of tard and went into a completely different, and worse, realm of stupidity and social ineptitude? Or maybe it meant something good?
Making a bit of baby yurp disappear from a frazzled-looking woman's blouse Emily desperately wanted to call Tracey and have a good, old fashioned, overly-analized discussion about this entire fiasco... But Trace wanted to set her up with Jim the Great and probably wouldn't welcome a discussion that threw a monkey wrech in her matchmaking cogs. And seriously, she was way too old for this sort of thing. She should just pull on her big girl panties and ask the damn guy what he meant.
But that would mean asking him and maybe hearing that she was beyond tardish. Or maybe not? But what if....
Emily's internal back-and-forth continued through putting together a baby announcement for something that resembled a hairless molerat, fielding a phone call from a frantic bride whose mother-in-law to be had just dyed her hair a disturbing shade of lailac, and answering a few phone calls from potential clients until she was interrupted by the chime of the bell above the door to her shop.
Glad for the interruption she turned from the desk where she was working and put on her best How Can I Help You? smile. The smile wobbled a bit when she saw it was a guy on his own, generally guys didn't come into the studio without female of family accompanyment, but she persevered and stood up while extending her hand.
"Hi! Welcome to License to Shoot, is there something I can help you with?"
The guy looked vaugely uncomfortable as he shook her hand (limply, like a half dead, clammy starfish). "Um... I'm Jim? I guess Tracey didn't call you?"
"Trace... Oh! You're Jim! No, Tracey didn't call me, was she supposed to?"
"Yeah. She said she would. I was out this way checking on something and when she heard I'd be in the area she told me where you worked and said she'd give you a head's up... But I guess she didn't." He ran his hand over his spikey short brown hair. "This is... Awkward."
"Awkward. Agreed." Emily responded as they both stood there awkwardly checking each other out. She noticed that he was all right looking, in that "I was really good looking in high school and I guess I peaked early" sort of way. He had blue eyes, she liked blue eyes. And he had laugh lines, so maybe that meant he enjoyed humor? And he was tall, she wouldn't tower over him in heels...
"Well. Tracey suggested we get together Friday night? Me, you, her and Jay? Drinks at Mo Doggies and maybe a few games of pool?"
Emily watched him shift nervously from foot to foot and finally decided to put him out of his misery, "Sure. Sounds good. What time Friday?"
"Tracey said eight-ish. So does that work for you? Eight?"
"I can do eight. Anything else that Tracey said that I should know about?" she quipped, and then felt bad as Jim's face sort of crumpled.
"Um, no. I don't think so... Uh, I guess I'll see you then, then."
Emily forced a smile and suffered through another damp handshake before agreeing and Jim left to do whatever it is that FDA people do. As soon as he was out the door she pulled out her phone and dialed her friend, who must have realized the reason Emily was calling and sent the call to voicemail. That didn't stop Emily though.
"Trace, what the hell were you thinking? He's not even my type. I'm not even sure whose type he would be... I am so going to brain you with a cue stick the next time I see you."
Shortly after hanging up her phone chirped and she looked at the text from her cowardly pal:
He's shy. Really
gr8 when he's
comfortable. U'll see
Srry!
Grunting in disbelief Emily blacked out the screen and returned to working. "Shy?" Maybe. Perhaps he was great one he was comfortable. Lots of people are a bit sociall awkward around strangers, especially strangers they're being set up with. Maybe Friday evening wouldn't be such a flop... Maybe they'd work. So long as he didn't give her any more awful handshakes.
But, she hadn't felt anything when their hands had met. Anything positive that was, she thought as she recalled the feel of dying sea life and shuddered. It certainly wasn't anything like the headdy rush she'd experienced with Mobil Boy's breif touches... She shook her head and sent the latest order to the printer. Mobil Boy was a fluke. A cute fluke, but still, she doubted that anything would come from that no matter how hard she was crushing on him.
He probably thought she was a tard, anyways.
For the next two days Emily avoided the Mobil gas station and filled up at the speedway on 59 instead. She focused on getting her holiday orders ready to be picked up, calmed the bride whose mother in law to be had dyed her hair lilac and now had decided to wear an orange dress to the wedding, and cut out of work early on Friday afternoon to put in some Going Out grooming time.
Showered, brows freshly plucked and hair blown dry nice and smooth, nails (fingers and toes) painted "Strawberry Electric," and war paint fully applied, Emily thought she looked pretty good. Once she'd pulled on some good jeans, a tank top, thin leather jacket, and her killer Nine West boots that she'd found on clearance at TJ Maxx she thought she looked damn good. Once she added some earring and looped a scarf around her neck (She wasn't trashy after-all, a hint of cleavage was hot- Too much looked desperate) she figured that she had done all she could with what she had to work with.
Leaving Hol with a rawhide chewie as an appology for abandoning her for the evening, Emily grabbed her car keys and headed tot he bar. She planned on getting there just a little early so she could have a bit of liquid courage before the "date" started.
Once she entered the bar though it was clear that she wasn't the only person with that plan. Jim was seated at the bar with a glass of something beery in front of him. Surprised he blurted out, "You're early!"
"I'm not the only one." she responded taking the stool near his seat. Catching the bartender's eye she called out, "Pint of Hoegaarden?" and let the awkward silence settle around her like a shroud as he pulled her beer.
Finally, when the glass was firmly in her hand she tenatively lifted it towards JIm, "Liquid courage?" she asked, waiting.
Eventually he lifted his own beer and touched the rim of his glass to hers. "Liquid courage" he agreed with a nervous smile.
The sad little taost seemed to break the ice somewhat, and the silence was slightly less awkward than it had previously been. When Tracey and Jay finally made an appearance (only 10 minutes late), Emily and Jim had managed to venture some questions. Well, Emily did most of the venturing, Jim supplied answers that involved less "Uming" as more of his beer left his glass and entered his blood stream.
By the time a pitcher had entered Jim's blood stram he was positively the life of the party and emily was surprised to find that she wasn't having a miserable time. Jim was funny, and nice, and he was even willing to get out on the dance floor to trip the light fantastic. By the time she had consumed a pitcher and a half she was almost partially convinced that she could almost like Jim.
So when he asked if it was ok for him to follow her home and maybe have a nightcap, she wasn't opposed to the idea.
But once on the couch, with Hol gazing reproachfully from her bed, the dea sea life hands and poor kissing technique started to give her second thoughts. She tried telling herself, "It'll get better," but as the make-out session continued, and she actually had to take Jim's hand and place it on her breast, she was having some serious doubts.
When he stammered, "Can I call you Mistress?" in a painfully nervous voice she knew it was time to call a halt to the proceedings.
"Ah.. Jim.. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but I don't land on that side of the slash." she said, sitting up and tugging her rumpled top down.
Giving her a look like a puppy that had just been drop-kicked across a room he stammered, "But, but, Um, Tracey said you were kinky too! So, I.. uh, I just assumed...?"
"No such luck, I'm afraid." Emily said, giving him a 'there-there' pat on the leg.
"Are you sure?" jim said, perking up as if a thought had just struck him, "You seem so Dominant. Couldn't you maybe switch?"
"Nope. I'm not a switch. And I think it's fairly clear that we're rather incompatible..." she replied with a sigh and a face-saving out.
"But.. Are you sure? Maybe you could try and you'd like it?"
Emily dropped her head into her hands. "Jim, I really think it's time for you to go now." she said, and listened as he pulled on his shoes, coat, and picked up his car keys.
"Well, um..." he said as his hand rested on the doorknob.
"Yeah. Not going to work, Jim."
And he left.
Emily fell back on the couch and patted the spot beside her, inviting Hol to come cuddle. Dog tucked firmly under her arm and belly rubs in progress, She address the dog, "Well that was a complete failure."
Hol grinned and waved her arms in the air for more vigorous rubbing.
"Trace set me up with a submissive, Hol."
Hol licked her chops and wagged.
"I wonder how that happened?... Oh. Must have been that half-assed, drunken conversation we had about that shitty book; Shades of Whatever."
Hol floped about impatiently as the belly rubs slowed down, reminding her person who was really important around the house and was rather disgruntled to find herself displaced as her person had the audacity to get off the couch and head for the bedroom. She whinned.
"Greedy thing, you've had enough love. And I have to get up early to earn money to buy your kibble- There's a woman with lilac hair and an orange dress who needs to be shot tomorrow... In black and white."
2.
The bride had paid form Emily to photograph all of the wedding festivities- From the hair being done at a salon, to the makeup getting applied at M.A.C, to getting tressed, the ceremony, and the recepton. An entire day of shooting was great for the bank account, but it meant that her alarm started blarring at an ungodly early hour, and after a night of drinking Emily awoke feeling like the mostly dead possum that Hol had hauled into the house last week.
Pulling on a fluffy robe she stumbled to the kitchen squint-eyed and groggy seeking the best hang-over cure known to woman: A can of Slim*Fast, slammed, follwed by a can of Diet Mtn Dew, and then water. By the time her shower was finished Emily felt worlds better and a few drops of Visine cleared up any residual redness of her eyes.
"Don't want to look like we've been tippling so early in the day, Hol." she muttered to the dog who was watching the goings-on in the bathroom with what appeared to be interest. "It's unprofessional." Finishing her own makeup, she went to the closet and pulled one of the fool-proof dress outfits out that Trace has helped her buy; Grey slacks with a teal pinstripe, a structured teal blazer, a silky royal purple shirt with teal and orange design, and she paired it with her "dress" Converse.
Emily was slightly doubtful about all the color, but Tracey who was an avid watcher of What Not To Wear had claimed that Stacy and Clinton would be proud. Em didn't really care, so long as she was warm and comfortable, she was happy.
Glancing at the clock to check the time, Emily was pleased that she had plenty left and wasn't running short. She gathered up her newest Nikon and its' accessories, made sure she had a new SD card in her camera bag, and keyed the fob on her keychain to start the car.
As she waited for the car to warm up and munched a piece of toast she reviewed the list of shots the the bride and her family had wanted and the reviewed her disasterous date with Jim. In a way it was sewwt that Trace had tried to hook her up with someone else kinky, but it had been the incompatible sort of kinky... She doubted that Tracey would understand- Few vanillas did.
Heading to the Genesee Valley Mall, or "The Valley" as everybody in the area refered to it, she parked at Penny's Salon and walked in. The receptionist assured her that the bride's party had yet to arrive Emily sat down to mull over what she wanted in a partner, if she decided to keep looing.
She knew she wanted someone on the D side of the slash. He ex had been so flavorless that he wasn't even vanilla, he was milk. Maybe even skim milk. She'd ended up making most of the decissions in that relationship and it hadn't made her happy. She thought she'd like a partner who would take the reins and lead, except maybe in her kitchen (she was a bit particular about her kitchen) and for things involving her business and her health.
Interrupting the reverie about The Dom of Her Dreams, the bridal party arrived and as Emily rose to greet them she had to bite back a gasp of dismay at the soon-to-be Mother in Law's hair- It really was as disasterous as the bride had claimed. Shooting Jennifer, the bride, a wide-eyed OMG look, she continued shaking hands until everybody had been suitably glad-handed, and then followed them back to the salon area where three sleepy beauticians waited to work their magic.
In a few hours, everybody was sporting wedding hair, and Emily followed the bride, her Maid of Honor, and the Mother of The Bride to Macy's where a team of ladies with sponges, brushes, and a plethora of product made the Bride look amazing. Em checked the space on her SD card and decided that there was plenty left for the ceremony, but she'd switch to another new one for the reception as that even usually offered tons of opportunity for great candid shots.
Parting ways with the bride and her attendants, Emily made a detour to McDonald's for something greasy to take the edge off what remained of her hang-over before jumping on 69 to head to Downtown Flint. Arriving again before the bride, she figured that they too had stopped for a snack. Making sure the car was unlocked because honestly, it was an eleven year-old car with nothing in it worth stealing and she'd rather someone just open the door than break a window, she ventured into First Pressbyterian, a lovely gothic church built in 1885.
She was greeted by the woman who coordinated weddings at First Press and was directed to the room reserved for the bride's preparation. While she waited she thought more about what she wanted in a prospective partner and jotted down a short list on her Galaxy Note. She erased the note when she discovered that she was writing down the same things that any woman looking for a guy would list:
Loyal
Honest
Trustworthy
Funny
Smart...
Instead she wrote:
Must not be adicted to video games. Bonus points if he has never heard of Worl of WarCrap.
Must have sucessfully cut the apron strings. Momma's boys need not apply because I don't want to come second to his parental unit.
Should like dogs, especially big, fluffy brown dogs with ADHD.
Has a job, a car, and does not live at home with the afore mentioned parental units.
She paused and thought of what other things she thought would be important...
Liberal Democrat a bonus.
Liberal Democrat Agnostic = Hitting the jack-pot.
Should not want kids.
When she heard the clamor of the bridal party she saved her note and put her phone back in her bag. She pulled out her camera in time for the bride and her minions to burst through the door and began shooting away.
After the ceremony (which was lovely as most ceremonies were) and the posed family portraits, Emily packed up her gear and crossed the street to the Masonic Temple, one of her favorite reception venues to shoot at. She took the obligatory table setting photos, made her way to the wrap-around balcony to shoot some bird's eye photographs of the entire venue. She hummed along to Frank Sinatra's My Way, as she shot from various angles.
Returning to the Auditorium's main floor she waited for the bridal party to make it's arrial and nibbled on some hors d'ouvers from the sidelines. She watched guests mingle, took a few pictures of some exuberant small folk who had taken the dance floor, and watched as a bride's maid alerted the DJ to the event everybody had been waiting for (because after that, those who hadn't grabbed a burger at the Historic Halo Burger would finally get to eat).
More photographs, a break as people were served and ate their dinners, and as the dinner detrious was cleaned up and then it was first dance time. Emily returned to the balcony to get a shot of the spot-light dance and panned her camera over the watching crowd. Suddenly a familiar blonde head and chin beard filled the viewfinder and Emily gasped.
Mobil Boy was at the reception! Sweet holy dog, she had not ben expecting that. Zooming in further she noticed that he was not wearing a ring on his left hand and that he appeared to be alone, or good as; The only girl near him wasn't putting off the lovey-dovey sorts of vibes that weddings typically inspired amongst couples.
As if he felt her scrutiny, Mobil Boy looked up- Directly at her. Reflexively, Emily triggered the shutter as the spotlight passed over his face before lowering the Nikon and returning his look. He smiled and then melted into the crowd. Deprived of her eye candy, she turned her camera back to the dance floor as the Father-daughter dance was announced (to the sickeningly over-played Daddy's Little Girl).
The dances progressed in the typical fashion at weddings, Mother-Son, Parents, Grandparents, before the dance floor was opened to the rest of the guests. Taking a few shots of the first couples brave enough to venture to the center of the auditorium Em felt the fine hairs on the nape of her neck lift. Feeling slightly foolish in case it was her imagination working over-time she ventured, "You walk like a cat."
Answered with a low chuckle she turned and came face-to-face with Mobil Boy, who didn't look at all boyish in a subtly pin-stripped black-on-black suit, teal shirt, and black tie.
"It's my shoes," he said, extending a slender foot encased in an expensive-looking wing-tip, "they're the most comfortable dress shoes I've ever owned."
Emily admired the proferred shoe for a moment before turning her gaze to Mobil Boy's pleasantly smiling face. "So are you a guest of the bride or the groom?" she asked, groping for some small talk to fill the silence.
"Neither. I don't know them." At emily's arched brow he continued, "My coworker is the bride's cousin and they're really competitive- She didn't want to show up to her cousin's wedding flying solo so I'm doing her a favor."
"Big favor."
"Yeah, but it means the next time I want to trade a day off with her, she's pretty much obligated to agree. So it works out." He shrugged and then querried, "So you're a photographer?"
Emily nodded. "It's my own business. I started it a few years ago and recently got a store front down in Brighton to use as a studio. I don't have to turn anybody away quite yet, but it's doing all right." She blushed, feeling as if she was bragging.
But he smiled and responded, "That's pretty cool. Few people get to do what they really enjoy. You're lucky."
The DJ chose that time to announce that the Bride and Groom would be cutting the cake shortly. "I have to get down there. Got a job to do." she stated with regret. He was probably just being nice and talking to her because she was a friendly face he knew, at this interruption he'd probably disappear with the bride's cousin and Emily wouldn't see him again... Until she worked up enough corage to buy gas at his store that is.
"Allow me." he said, as he took her elbow and led her down the stairs to where the happy couple was preparing to smoosh over-priced, sugary goodness into each other's faces. Emily hoped that the low lighting was hiding the blush she felt as that current of energy flashed from Mobil Boy, through her arm, directly to her pink parts. The energy that had been missing last night durring her ill-fated encounter with Jim.
Taking the necessary ammount of pictures to commemorate a glorified, if low-key food fight she kept expecting him to venture off, but he didn't. Instead he stuck by her side until the cake festivities were finsihed and the music resumed playing. At the first strains of Sinatra's Fly Me To The Moon he arched an inquiring eyebrow at her.
"I can't, I'm working." she protested, weakly, as he took her camera and bag from her and set them under the table, hidden by the skirting.
Ignoring a string of similar protests as he completed that manover, he extended his hand and said simply, "Dance with me."
Something in his tone stilled her pathetic protests and she felt her libido stir in a way that she hadn't felt before. As the allowed herself to be pulled into his embrace and led through a simple two-step she noticed new things about him that she'd missed durring their previous encounters: Wearing heels they were close to the same height. He had a renegade slash of color in his left eye, she thought it might be brown. He was wearing a small hoop earring, which suited him and drew her eye to the line of his neck by his ear. He smelled delicious.
As the dance ended he placed an incredibly inapropriate kiss in the palm of her hand and began to walk away. Stunned, by her reaction to him, that oddly erotic kiss, and his abrupt departure she stood gawping for a second before regaining her senses.
"Mobil Boy, what's your name?" she called to his receding back.
"If you want to find out, you'll have to come buy gas from me some time soon Emily." he tossed back over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.
Emily's brow furrowed as she wondered how he knew her name, and then lifted. To get a discount the happy couple had agreed to let her leave a few tasteful business cards on the tables, he must have seen one. She retreived her equiptment from under the cake table and resumed shooting the antics of the guests around her, and although she looked for Mobil Boy to appear in her view finder again he didn't.
Once her night ended she walked to her car and automatically checked the fuel gauge after she turned the key in the ignition. There was a bit over a quarter tank left, enough to get her home and part of the way to work on Monday if she stayed home tomorrow... She had a feeling that tomorrow would be spent sitting on the couch watching movies with Hol.
Day 1 total word count- 7,297
No comments:
Post a Comment