Itch
Amber Shultz waited. She didn’t mind waiting. Her Moscow Mule had other plans.
“It’s driiiiiping, Connor,” she spat, “If we wait any longer my cup will overfloweth and that will ruin the shot.”
Connor pretended to play with the camera. It was already focused and there wasn’t a technical reason why he couldn’t start shooting now. He already fiddled with the lights for thirty minutes. The lighting was perfect forty minutes ago and Amber knew it.
And that’s the difference between an engineer and an artist, he mused. An artist wasn’t enslaved to an equation. His instincts told him when it was time. All the technology in the world couldn’t grasp the passion of a moment. The proper lens could help bring …
“CONNOR!” her face lit up.
He took the shot.
He didn’t need to look at it.
Amber didn’t wait to drink her Moscow Mule. Back in high school all of her friends knew she was destined to have a lifelong and intimate relationship with alcohol. Even though she liked to drink, Amber Elizabeth Shultz was no fool. She bought two yearbooks. One was for her parents. They would show their friends how their daughter was able to juggle student council, volleyball, and jazz band while still being on the honor roll. The second yearbook was for her. It highlighted her ability to juggle all the…
