Her first
middle school dance. He’s still too
young to go. She nervously slips into her
scandalously high heeled shoes which she still can’t believe her father let her
purchase.
“Is he
coming down?” her father asks.
“Is who coming down, Dad?” she responds indignantly.
“PICTURES!” Flash.
Mom naively saves the day.
She and her
newest best friend pose for blinding shot after blinding shot. Flash.
Flash. Some posed, some posed to
look as if they aren’t posing. As she
reenacts the process of putting on mascara for the 50th shot,
(flash) there’s a knock at the door.
He’s covered
in snow. Hair disheveled, clothed in
battered jeans and an athletic jacket.
No one would know that he changed 3 times. He’d never admit how he stood in the cold for
5 minutes in her backyard admiring the way she moved in that dress—Flash.
The only
picture she now has of the 2 of them.
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