Morning Misery

Exhausted bad.  I had a shoot at six last night. . . thought to make it quick and be home early.  Ho!  The model showed up on time.  Savanna, a translucent redhead.  She came in a big Explorer.  Said she'd been living in it.  She brought in a small, vintage suitcase.  In it was everything we'd need.  Fine Arts degree, she said.  Printmaker.  She recognized some of the processes I used.  She is a gypsy, working a hundred jobs in the years since college, most interesting.  She worked at a summer camp in Maine, danced at the Cheetah club three times.  Lived at a parachutists airport.  Jumped twenty times.  Is going to work on an organic blueberry farm.  We talked.  We shot.  Afterwards, we went to dinner.  It was already late.  A Spanish tapas bar, we sat outside in a brick alley.  Sangria, mussels, some sort of quiche-thing with sausage that we hadn't ordered.  Ox tail.  The night wore away.  She young, me not so much, I the more fascinated and exhausted.  We went back to the studio to get her things, sat, drank whiskey and told more tales.  She must go, I said.  I work in a factory.  Tomorrow I have an especially early meeting.  Then a luncheon for some employees and the head of the factory.  A hair appointment after work, then a shoot.  I was already dreading the day.  She poured one more whiskey for the road.

I was in bed before two.

I am dead now.  And I have to go.  I have no time to tell this as it should be told.  But she is coming back next week.  From somewhere.  She has no home, only a life.

This morning, dreading everything, I think I am only lacking one thing.  I have a house and a job.

Ooohhhhhhhh.