Long hours at the factory, longer than before. Then rushing home to feed the cat quickly so I can go to the studio for a six o'clock shoot. Venezuelan girl. Shows up late with a three week old kitten. I drink without having eaten. We shoot, finish. It is nine-thirty. I think of food. She is nineteen, works two jobs. Washes hair at a beauty salon, fixes lunches at an elementary school. Lunchroom lady. Lives with a boyfriend who works at Fedex. The cat cries. Her mother calls. I pour Vanilla Vodka--I'm not kidding--from my shoot with Drug Skinny. I have tonic to mix it with. Ms. Venezuela hangs out. I pick up my camera and begin shooting pictures of her with the cat. We talk about her life, her jobs, her boyfriend. An hour goes by. I've had half a bottle of wine, two vodkas, and no food. It is late now, after ten. She stays. She tells me things. Then her boyfriend texts her. She asks what goes with fish. White wine, I tell her. She wants to know about food. Jasmine rice, asparagus. Her lips turn up. Nothing like that. Her favorite restaurant is Chilis. So I tell her salt and ketchup.
"When you come shoot with me again," I tell her, "I'll have some potato chips and coke."
"Sprite," she says.
I play with the cat and ponder another drink on an empty stomach. These are the travails of the amateur photographer.
I have guessed things about her that I cannot tell you here and now, but I will disguised as another story somewhere else in the blog. Dark things. Secret things that she confirms.
I try to get fast food on the way home, but everything is closed. I have a frozen pizza in the fridge. Twelve minutes, it says. I am eating pizza and drinking beer at midnight.
I have mistakenly told models that I would shoot with them Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Ms. V wants to come back next week.
I will die. Die, I tell you. It has been a fourteen hour day. I'm to bed. G'night.
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