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Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
Страница: 14 из 138As for how she manages to put up with Penley and her biting tongue, I can only attribute it to Maria’s very limited grasp of the English language.
I, on the other hand, can understand perfectly all the ridiculously demeaning things that Penley says to me on a daily basis.
So rushing back to that penthouse apartment after dropping off Dakota and Sean holds little appeal. I prefer to take my time, today being no exception. Since I haven’t been able to make any sense of what happened, or seemed to happen, earlier, I’m trying to keep my thoughts on anything but.
I stroll south on Madison Avenue. The sunlight is perfect, and the urge to snap some pictures returns. I reach for my camera and automatically I’m excited.
As I take off the lens cap, I can’t help thinking about Michael. When he’s not trying to put me into a nicer apartment, he’s offering to jump-start my career by financing my own gallery or getting me a prestige magazine shoot.
But I won’t let him do that. None of it.
It’s important to me that I do this on my own, even if that means barely scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck. I’m not a complete fool, mind you – Michael is allowed to take me out, buy me dinners and other fun stuff – but I never want to feel as if I’m beholden to him. And deep down, though he’ll never admit it, I think he doesn’t want me to feel that way either. That’s another reason I love him. I do. I do.
I keep looking for more great shots to build my portfolio, clicking away when I’m lucky enough to see them. And today -yeah! – I’m seeing them.
A little farther down Madison, I spot a man in a skullcap, washing the front window of a restaurant, his disgruntled reflection crystal clear in the wake of his squeegee.
It creates a fantastic double image of working-class angst, and I shoot it from a couple of angles, commiserating with the guy.
Then I pass a woman smoking a cigarette outside a Coach leather store. She’s undoubtedly a sales clerk on break, the hunched posture and faraway gaze providing more than enough proof. I take two shots, one of her and one of her shadow.
I smile behind my lens. This is really good stuff!
So good in fact that I lose track of how far I’ve walked.
Before I know it, I’m standing less than a block away from the Fálcon.
That was a close one, I tell myself. Surely the only thing worse than returning to work would be facing that hotel again. Especially since the Fálcon and I have some history anyway. To put it mildly.
I, on the other hand, can understand perfectly all the ridiculously demeaning things that Penley says to me on a daily basis.
So rushing back to that penthouse apartment after dropping off Dakota and Sean holds little appeal. I prefer to take my time, today being no exception. Since I haven’t been able to make any sense of what happened, or seemed to happen, earlier, I’m trying to keep my thoughts on anything but.
I stroll south on Madison Avenue. The sunlight is perfect, and the urge to snap some pictures returns. I reach for my camera and automatically I’m excited.
As I take off the lens cap, I can’t help thinking about Michael. When he’s not trying to put me into a nicer apartment, he’s offering to jump-start my career by financing my own gallery or getting me a prestige magazine shoot.
But I won’t let him do that. None of it.
It’s important to me that I do this on my own, even if that means barely scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck. I’m not a complete fool, mind you – Michael is allowed to take me out, buy me dinners and other fun stuff – but I never want to feel as if I’m beholden to him. And deep down, though he’ll never admit it, I think he doesn’t want me to feel that way either. That’s another reason I love him. I do. I do.
I keep looking for more great shots to build my portfolio, clicking away when I’m lucky enough to see them. And today -yeah! – I’m seeing them.
A little farther down Madison, I spot a man in a skullcap, washing the front window of a restaurant, his disgruntled reflection crystal clear in the wake of his squeegee.
It creates a fantastic double image of working-class angst, and I shoot it from a couple of angles, commiserating with the guy.
Then I pass a woman smoking a cigarette outside a Coach leather store. She’s undoubtedly a sales clerk on break, the hunched posture and faraway gaze providing more than enough proof. I take two shots, one of her and one of her shadow.
I smile behind my lens. This is really good stuff!
So good in fact that I lose track of how far I’ve walked.
Before I know it, I’m standing less than a block away from the Fálcon.
That was a close one, I tell myself. Surely the only thing worse than returning to work would be facing that hotel again. Especially since the Fálcon and I have some history anyway. To put it mildly.