Spin [Chapter Two]

Now this is probably the most painful part for me to write. Not because it’s the worst, not because something catastrophic happens, not even because I wish it away. No, it’s the most painful part for me to write because putting it on paper is like admitting that everything that happened after was real. It’s like documenting the evidence, preparing the motive, making a conviction. 1

And I know that you know how we met, because, obviously, you were there. But I’m going to tell you anyways, because you’ve never been there from my point of view, and diversity of perspective is important.2

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I worked at KayNson photo. I remember trying so hard not to laugh during my job interview when they told me where the name came from. The owner of KayNson was Kaiden Caneson, and somehow he managed to incorporate his first name, and his last name, and still manage to have the classic “and son” in there. Oh, here this man sat, smiling and laughing at his own ingeniousness, and I just wanted to reach over that desk and slap him right in the face for being so damn cheesy. KayNson. How clever. Pfft.4

You’re probably wondering why I would even bother with a job like this, right? I mean, I barely get paid minimum wage, I have to deal with impatient people all day, and sometimes I even had to work holidays. And to really understand why I would even consider taking a job at KayNson, you would have to know me. And I don’t mean be able to tell me my birthday, favorite color. I mean you would have to be able to recite my entire life’s history. Or, I could just tell you.5

I took that job because I have a great love for pictures and what they represent. To me, a photograph is more than a scrap of paper with a face on it. It’s a story, a memory. It’s the caption of a moment. It’s the only way to keep that second forever, because, eventually, that second has to pass, and that moment has to be gone. But when you have a picture of it, it’s almost just as good. Almost. And if you look at it long enough, the pieces in your mind come together, and it’s like watching a movie. 6

So why not just take my own pictures? Because then I learn nothing I don’t already know. I like to look at candid photos and see the way that girl is gazing at that guy. I like to be able to see that pure, raw emotion that you don’t get to see in everyday life, because the moment is gone before you even notice. I like to see pictures of a little boy in a mans arms, with mom standing off to the side, and make up a story. And then when the mother comes in with another man and the same child, I like to make up a new one. Maybe she’s divorced, maybe his dad is dead. Or maybe he’s just at work, and this new man is just an uncle visiting from Ohio. I’m sure that half of my stories are wrong, but there are so many possibilities, I’ll never know. And that bothers me too, sometimes. I wanna know where the boys’ father is. I want to ask how the girl got that bruise on her face. But I know that everyone has the right to have their secrets. God knows I have enough of my own.7

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It was exactly twelve days after I started working at KayNson when I met you. I know this because it was two days before my first paycheck, and also my lucky number. Or at least, the most eventful number for me.9

I was sifting through the pictures of someones family reunion when I heard the ringing of the bell above the entrance, announcing your presence. Yes, I heard bells the first time I met you.10

I dropped the pictures out of reflex, expecting my boss, and crouched down behind the counter to pick them up. I guess you didn’t see me, because you started dinging the annoying little service bell repeatedly. 11

“I will be with you in a moment.” I said it rather snippily, and then stood up with the pictures haphazardly sorted in my hands. God, I hated being the only one on duty till seven.12

You laughed and apologized, “Sorry.”13

I almost dropped the pictures again when I looked up at you. This was not a horribly small town, but I’d never seen anyone quite like you.14

Your glossy midnight black hair was side swept in front of your eyes and sticking out spikily everywhere. It looked like you had let a five year old go at your head with a pair of safety scissors. I assumed this wasn’t true, though, because the bleached tips and highlights looked professional. Although, I’d never seen anyone go into a salon and come out with lime green streaks. Except, maybe in a movie. But I think that was an accident. 15

I couldn’t really tell from where I was standing that your eyes were an amazing shade of blue, but I could see that they were thickly outlined in eyeliner and charcoal. I’m guessing eye shadow, too, unless you’d just been in a fist fight. Then, I suppose, it could’ve been all natural. 16

Your skin tight Alesana t-shirt and girl jeans were a little shocking, too. I’d only ever heard of people like you. Never actually seen any until then.17

And my initial reaction wasn’t, ‘Woah, faggot.’ Because, one, I’m not like that, and two, I kinda liked it. I mean, I’m punk. Scene, you might even call it. Grunge. But me and Ashlee were as hardcore as it got around here.18

“Oh, it’s okay. Can I help you?”19

“Yeah, I’ve got some pictures I need developed.” You gestured around at the aisles and aisles of camera equipment, photo accessories, and of course, photo development stuff.20

Duh, you wanted your pictures developed. I flushed.21

“Right. Duh.” I took the pictures from you hands and turned away as you looked me up and down. I suddenly felt raw and exposed without my fingerless gloves, black t-shirt, and ripped jeans. Stupid dress code. The only thing to be thankful for was that the polo was green and not some terrible shade of fuchsia. Kinda like the color my face was probably turning at that point. Especially when I realized I’d been staring at you before. Gawking, more likely.22

“They’ll be ready in a couple hours. You could go catch a movie, shop around, eat, and still have time to run laps around the building before these are done.”23

You laughed, and I couldn't help but smile, “Slow equipment?” You asked.24

“More like slow people.” I laughed too.25

You looked around for a second, “Plural?”26

“No, it’s just me. I just like to pretend I’m not the only one working my ass off for minimum wage on a Saturday.”27

You smiled again, blinding me with those perfect teeth.28

“We all like to pretend every once in a while,” and winked once with your right eye before walking out of the store.29

I watched you go, listened to the crash of the door, and the ding, thinking- 30

You are so right.31