Trent’s carefully-crafted façade had fallen apart. Someone at the gallery party knew him, and openly asked if he were still working at the shipping counter. Shipping counter? every eye in the vicinity asked, turning to the man who claimed to be the managing director of accounts receivable at a small but growing geometrics software firm.
The woman he’d been speaking with, to, at, with great expectations, smiled and shrugged in a charitable way. “That must have been quite a while ago,” she said, offering cover that saved face for them all. Yeah, quite a while ago. Yesterday afternoon, in fact.
He knew he didn’t have a chance. A kiss turns a frog into a prince, but a badly-timed banality from a shithead does just the reverse. Already, men who’d presumed themselves outclassed were easing back, like lions who’ve just realized the zebra who outpaced them moments before is limping. So he was quite surprised when she said, “So what do you do in your spare time?”
The creeping lions paused, every bit as puzzled as Trent.
“Oh, um… amateur photography,” he said. “I know the guy exhibiting this evening. Well, slightly. He kind of got me started.”
“Really?”
The young lions were on the retreat again.
“Yes, I saw some of his work in a store window downtown when I was in college and we wound up talking. He helped me find my first equipment.” Trent licked his lips, his mind raced. The next step was so natural, and he felt good that it was also the right one. “How about you; how’d you happen to be here this evening?”
“I know the photographer, too. He’s my uncle.” Trent’s eyebrows shot up and they both laughed. “Do you shoot mostly black and white?” she asked.
“Mostly. I’m like your uncle… I reserve colour for special subjects.”
“Oh, yeah?” she breezed. “Like what?”
Trent smiled.
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