The Photographer.

(I wrote this short story back in 2009 or 2010. It made me smile when I read it again. I hope you enjoy it.)


He walked in. As soon as I saw him, all the noise around me seemed to fade. I stood up straighter and watched him.

I had been leaning by the kitchen sink with a clear view of where all the beautiful people were standing and posing in their fancy outfits, ready for their pictures to be taken. I was applying hand moisturizer for the 100th time that hour.That's because I had cleared the sink for the 100th time and my apron was very wet. I did not know how much beautiful people ate. Until today,of course.

The photographer with his big, high-tech camera. He looked at all the beautiful people intently as if memorizing every single detail. He did not smile. Not even once. I couldn't stop staring at him even though I knew it was rude. He walked back and forth, yelling this and rearranging that until he was content with how everything looked. Was that a slightly different accent I detected? I couldn't tell. As my mind was pondering this, I didn't realise that he was looking in my direction. Our eyes met for a brief second. Was that a smile? I couldn't tell. I blushed and quickly looked down. A few seconds later I looked up and his attention was already back on his camera and the beautiful people. Click, click, flash, flash the camera went.

I was transfixed.

Not so much by the beautiful people, but by the photographer. So much so that I did not realize someone had brought a mountain load of dishes again. Oh well, there goes my moisturizer. I turned my attention to the dishes, and allowed my thoughts to wander.

All of a sudden I felt a presence next to me. It was him. The photographer. I turned and found him looking intently at my face just as he had done with the beautiful people. He was studying me. I knew that look. He was wondering how old I was. So I just smiled and to my surprise he smiled back. He had the most unique features. Even though I was sure he was not that old, he had snow white hair complete with a snow white goatee. He had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. And when he smiled I couldn't help but notice how white his teeth were. He asked me where I was from. I've always had trouble answering that question. Should I say New York....should I say my native land? Instead I asked him where he was from. Poland. Oh so I was right about an accent. And then I told him I was from Kenya. He smiled and asked me if I knew some runner. I did not. Maybe it was the way he pronounced the name. Please don't ask me what I think of the current president of the United States, I mentally prayed. He did not. He wanted coffee. Luckily I had just made a pot of coffee. I poured it for him then he disappeared into the other room.


The photographer came back a few minutes later.The sink was cleared and once again I was applying hand moisturizer. And looking directly at me, he said,

"That was the best cup of coffee I've had in a long time."

I blushed. He left.

And that was the last time I saw him.




 

The Announcement.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and said,

"Dad, I am getting married."

The look I saw after I slowly opened my eyes was not the look I had hoped for.

This is not good, I thought to myself. That looked was filled with horror...and a little sadness. I looked away.

My father and I are very close. Ever since my mother, the love of his life, decided that marriage and motherhood were too much for her, it has just been me and him. Ten years of fights, misunderstandings, teenage rebellion, college craziness and now, I was getting married.

Surely, he should understand, I tried to encourage myself. I am of age now and God has blessed me with someone who is committed to Him and me.

My mother's desertion destroyed any positive notions that my father had ever had about marriage. Sure, he is a born again christian and believes in the institution of marriage. But not for himself. A double standard, I know. That is exactly what I keep telling him. One time as a teenager I brought home a boyfriend, excited for my father to meet him. That's how close we were and still are. My father had a fit. Something about my boyfriend not looking like he could afford my dowry. Needless to say that was the first...and last time I made that mistake. He would always joke about how if things remained as they were, just me and him, he would be very content. As the years wore on I began to wonder whether he was serious.

I met my fiancee` at church. He and my father became good friends after a few months of both of them volunteering with the teen boys' ministry. When we started dating, I thought of telling my father immediately but I held off waiting to see if anything would come of it. Then last week, he proposed. I had no choice but to tell the man who would walk me down the aisle.

I turned back and looked into the mirror. I knew why I looked horrified and sad. I was scared my father would not support me and I felt like I was abandoning him,hence the sadness.
But this had to be done. My watch said 6pm. He should be home anytime now. I waited and sure enough a few seconds later, I heard the door being opened downstairs. Saying it in person will go better than practicing in the mirror did. I hoped.

"Sweetheart, I'm home!"

I took one last look in the mirror and smiled. Just breathe. I turned and walked out of the bathroom and downstairs into the kitchen where my father was pouring himself a glass of water. He smiled as soon as he saw me.

"Dad, I am getting married."