I followed her quiet footsteps as she moved along the sidewalk. Her shape was dark and indistinct, obscured against the backdrop of night. A heavy mist had fallen over the campus, diffusing the light from the streetlamps into a ghostly haze that subdued all detail. But I'd already seen enough to pique my interest.
She went inside the library. So did I. The camera bag at my side felt solid and reassuring, an anchor against the uncertainty of human contact. She sat down at the index computers. I hung back and studied her, taking mental notes as I did. She had a slim profile, with wide hips and a smallish chest. Her short black hair was swept to one side in a stylish pixie cut. Her skin was naturally pale, with heavy eyeliner accenting her dark eyes. She had a subdued alt-punk kind of look, with multiple earrings and a pierced nose.
She was perfect.
I waited for her near the exit, spending a handful of minutes scanning the bulletin boards on the wall. They were always the same, a chaotic paper jungle of wanted ads for roommates, used books, blood donors, etc. And of course, models. I preferred the face-to-face approach, even though I wasn't very good at it.
The girl headed for the door. I moved quickly to intercept. Now that I was closer, I could see that she was wearing tight black jeans and a dark gray top with the familiar logo of a local band on it.
"Hi," I said. "Got a second?"
She gave me a quick glance of appraisal before slowing to talk. Her eyes were brown and inquisitive. Her face had the kind of quiet prettiness that grew more noticeable the longer you looked.
"Sure," she answered, focusing her full attention on me. Something immediately jammed between my brain and my vocal cords, and for a terrible moment I couldn't speak. She watched me curiously as I fumbled for words. It felt like whatever chemistry we might have had was rapidly dissolving into the night air.
"I, uh, I'm a photographer," I managed to say. "I'd like you to model for me."
Her eyes narrowed but she didn't walk away. "Oh yeah? What kind of photographer?"
Finally, the words came out. They were well-rehearsed but sincere.
"I'm working on a project about individuality and self-image, you know, how people express themselves through their appearance. I'm putting together a portfolio and you have the exact look I had in mind." As I spoke, I tried my best to be charming. Disarming. Normal. I was clutching my camera bag with a viselike grip.
"This is really for an art class?" She asked, glancing toward the door. The silver stud in her nose glittered. "Nothing weird?"
"No, no, nothing weird," I answered, maybe a little too quickly. "Just a photo layout of you in your own clothes. Natural poses. It should only take a half-hour at the most."
She chewed her lip and seemed to consider for a moment, then looked me in the eyes and asked the worst possible question. "Does it pay anything?"
"Uh, no," I answered. "But I can give you a custom portfolio with all the shots you like." I smiled and shrugged. Honesty was the only thing I had going for me. "Best I can do on a student budget."
She paused, then cracked an odd little smile of her own. "Okay, sure. What the hell."
"Great!" I tried not to sound as surprised as I was. "Um, when's good for you?"
"How about tomorrow," she answered. "Around five?"
"That'd be fine. How about we meet back here?"
She nodded, still wearing her quirky smile. "Okay."
"Oh, by the way, my name's Rick," I added, offering her my hand.
She took it and squeezed lightly. "Angela."
"Nice to meet you, Angela."
She released my hand and looked at me for a long moment. I wondered what she saw. "I have a class to get to," she said abruptly. "See you later."
"See you," I nodded. She walked through the door and disappeared into the night.
On the way home I found myself analyzing every word and gesture until I'd made up my mind that she wasn't going to show. Maybe she thought she was being nice by stringing me along, by not telling me to fuck off outright...
Enough. I closed my eyes and forced a deep breath into my lungs. I released it slowly and told myself to relax. If she showed up, great. If not, it wasn't the end of the world. The anxious flutter in my chest didn't seem convinced.
The next day was dark and rainy. I tried to gather the nerve to approach someone else, but it just wasn't happening. I'd known I was overstepping my limits when I decided to photograph women. Approaching them always made me twitchy. I think it was from all the merciless teasing I'd gotten back in middle school. A gang of popular girls in my class had gotten their kicks out of humiliating the nerdy types, and they'd seemed to have it in for me especially. I wasn't half as shy as I used to be, but speaking to women—especially the attractive ones—still made my stomach twist into knots.
My classes ended early and I spent a while just walking in the drizzle. I watched people as they interacted, each the center of their own little universe. Most had enough gravity to pull others in. Some pushed them away. I seemed to neither repulse nor attract. I was completely and horribly inert.
I went to the library at five o'clock, hoping I was wrong. At five-thirty I was still standing in the rain. It somehow felt appropriate. When the gray sky gave way to black, I turned and headed home.
The rain had turned the roads into mirrors. Every streetlamp and traffic light was reflected in the shining surface, but whenever I focused on one and walked toward it, it seemed to disappear just as it came within reach.
* * * * *
Thursday. The end of my school week. The sky was full of rain and the students seemed subdued as they milled from class to class. Every color seemed muted. It occurred to me that my life was turning into some exceptionally dull
film noir
movie. I wondered if I was supposed to be the hero. I had the squarish jaw for it, but not the confidence or charisma. Shitty casting. Nobody would want to see a film without a plucky heroine either. At least,
