Page 109 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“I’m sitting right here,” I mutter.

“Yes, and it’s delightful.”

Dannica laughs, shaking her head as she reaches for the coffee pot beside the booth, and I catch it. Not just the movement. The moment.

The way the morning light coming through the diner windows catches the edge of her hair. The way Mildred looks at her when she’s not paying attention. Familiar. Fond. Like love worn so long it stopped needing to announce itself.

My fingers twitch slightly against the table before I even realize it. I have the urge to shoot these two laughing, but that would be weird. Right?

“You’re doing that thing again,” Dannica says suddenly.

I blink. “What thing?”

“The staring thing.”

Mildred hums knowingly into her coffee.

“I’m observing,” I defend.

“That sounds creepier somehow.”

“It’s literally my profession.” I defend.

“That doesn’t help your case.” Dannica retorts with a mischievous smile so wide on her face my cock twitches. Not now, please not now.

I glance around the diner again to distract my body. The guy in the corner reading yesterday’s paper looks content. The cook yelling in the kitchen sounds like he needs a coffee break, but the next second he’s laughing again.

This diner teems with life. Real life. Messy and ordinary and more interesting than anything I’ve shot in ages. Suddenly, I want to see if it’s just her, if this feeling follows me outside the diner too. I push to my feet, grabbing my camera bag.

“You’re leaving already?” Dannica asks, and there’s something in the question that lands warm in my chest.

“For now.”

Mildred points at me with her coffee spoon. “You’ll be back.”

It’s not a question. The strange thing is…I think she’s right. “I’m gonna wander a little,” I say, sliding the strap over my shoulder. “See if this town has anything else worth shooting.”

Dannica’s smile curves slowly.

“Oh, it does.”

Later, I head to the print shop. The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, the scent of paper and ink welcoming me like a warm embrace. It’s a small space, but every inch feels used, lived in. There’s nothing polished about it, just function, just craft. The owner looks up from behind the counter, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“You here for a pickup?”

“Yeah,” I say, setting my camera bag down. “And maybe something else.”

He hands me the prints I ordered, and I flip through them, expecting that familiar disconnect, that feeling of almost but not quite. It’s not there. They’re not perfect. But they feel closer to it. More honest.

“You do this all yourself?” I ask, nodding toward the machinery behind him.

“Been doing it thirty years,” he says with a shrug. “You learn a thing or two.”

I study him for a moment, the way he moves, the way it’s just him and his work. “Mind if I take some photos?” I ask. “Of you? While you’re working.”

He blinks. “Me?”

“Yeah.”