Paparazzi
Mondays.
I hate Mondays.
Every Monday, I would wish that Mondays would cease to exist altogether, but then the week would start with Tuesday and then I’ll find myself saying ‘I hate Tuesdays’ wishing that Tuesdays would cease to exist, too – but then Tuesday would become the new Monday, and what difference would all of that have made in the end? Although I’d come to that conclusion countless times before, it had never stopped me from saying it any less. Well, groaning it to my flatmate and good friend Tyson, actually.
“Good morning,” He sang cheerfully, already armed with a hot cup of caffeine to shove under my nose. “Looks like you’ve had a rough couple of days.”
I moaned something monstrous, still not civilised yet, and plonked down onto a chair opposite him on the dining room table. The chairs were all mixed and match, with the theme spreading through the two bedroom, one bathroom flat. It was a colourful, cluttered mess, completely comfy and sore to any tired eyes - and every inch of it home.
After a moment or two, I’d poised myself. “Well, not all of us have the luxury of a job that requires them to sit in the car taking pictures from a distance all day long, eating Reese’s Buttercups and whatever you please.”
Tyson’s handsome face broke out into a wiry grin. Currently, he was packing his bulky camera and attachments into a bag, ready for the day. Tyson was a photographer – he captured celebrities out and about, mostly, though his real love was capturing action shots of live gigs at any one of the small bars dotting the Hollywood area. Infact, we met at a small gig. He was shooting one of my ex-boyfriend’s gigs and he’d come up to the bar, where I was waiting for the band to finish appeasing the fans who’d stayed behind. He was catching a quick drink before heading off, when I turned to the only other person sitting at the bar – a lanky, bleach blonde boy with thick black disks stretching his pink earlobes. One of them was covered in diamantes, and I said ‘nice bling’. He laughed, said ‘thanks’, and introduced himself. We’ve been friends ever since.
“Where you headed out today?” I ask him, just as he shoves one last battery into the pocket of his bulging shoulder bag.
“Rodeo Drive, for a bit, then if it’s a slow day I might head off to one of the restaurants. Drinks after work?” He proposed.
I thought for a bit, letting the hot coffee cool while sloshing around in my mouth before finally letting it slide down my throat. I shrugged, “Why not?”
“I’ve got a gig to shoot, after work. But there’s a bar and I’ll see you there.” Then Tyson was off; out the door he went, the shoulder bag hanging off of him as he crossed the rest of the apartment to get to his beat-up Mustang parked outside in the resident parking lot. I heard the engine turn, and the soft ‘putt putt’ it made as it reversed out onto the street.
Not long after Tyson had left, I was making my own way out of the house, and cursing myself as I ran up to the front of the FLASH Magazine building. It was a big, white structure surrounded by similar gray ones. On the front was FLASH in big, black block letters. Today it seemed like the building was screaming at me, the sight of it made me want to stumble back to my car and drive straight on home, even through the horrific traffic. Though, I knew the second that thought had surfaced, that it was too late.
Daphne had already seen me.
No point in turning back now, I sighed, and trudged on into the building which seemed to swallow me whole, right into Daphne’s fury.
I hate Mondays.
Every Monday, I would wish that Mondays would cease to exist altogether, but then the week would start with Tuesday and then I’ll find myself saying ‘I hate Tuesdays’ wishing that Tuesdays would cease to exist, too – but then Tuesday would become the new Monday, and what difference would all of that have made in the end? Although I’d come to that conclusion countless times before, it had never stopped me from saying it any less. Well, groaning it to my flatmate and good friend Tyson, actually.
“Good morning,” He sang cheerfully, already armed with a hot cup of caffeine to shove under my nose. “Looks like you’ve had a rough couple of days.”
I moaned something monstrous, still not civilised yet, and plonked down onto a chair opposite him on the dining room table. The chairs were all mixed and match, with the theme spreading through the two bedroom, one bathroom flat. It was a colourful, cluttered mess, completely comfy and sore to any tired eyes - and every inch of it home.
After a moment or two, I’d poised myself. “Well, not all of us have the luxury of a job that requires them to sit in the car taking pictures from a distance all day long, eating Reese’s Buttercups and whatever you please.”
Tyson’s handsome face broke out into a wiry grin. Currently, he was packing his bulky camera and attachments into a bag, ready for the day. Tyson was a photographer – he captured celebrities out and about, mostly, though his real love was capturing action shots of live gigs at any one of the small bars dotting the Hollywood area. Infact, we met at a small gig. He was shooting one of my ex-boyfriend’s gigs and he’d come up to the bar, where I was waiting for the band to finish appeasing the fans who’d stayed behind. He was catching a quick drink before heading off, when I turned to the only other person sitting at the bar – a lanky, bleach blonde boy with thick black disks stretching his pink earlobes. One of them was covered in diamantes, and I said ‘nice bling’. He laughed, said ‘thanks’, and introduced himself. We’ve been friends ever since.
“Where you headed out today?” I ask him, just as he shoves one last battery into the pocket of his bulging shoulder bag.
“Rodeo Drive, for a bit, then if it’s a slow day I might head off to one of the restaurants. Drinks after work?” He proposed.
I thought for a bit, letting the hot coffee cool while sloshing around in my mouth before finally letting it slide down my throat. I shrugged, “Why not?”
“I’ve got a gig to shoot, after work. But there’s a bar and I’ll see you there.” Then Tyson was off; out the door he went, the shoulder bag hanging off of him as he crossed the rest of the apartment to get to his beat-up Mustang parked outside in the resident parking lot. I heard the engine turn, and the soft ‘putt putt’ it made as it reversed out onto the street.
Not long after Tyson had left, I was making my own way out of the house, and cursing myself as I ran up to the front of the FLASH Magazine building. It was a big, white structure surrounded by similar gray ones. On the front was FLASH in big, black block letters. Today it seemed like the building was screaming at me, the sight of it made me want to stumble back to my car and drive straight on home, even through the horrific traffic. Though, I knew the second that thought had surfaced, that it was too late.
Daphne had already seen me.
No point in turning back now, I sighed, and trudged on into the building which seemed to swallow me whole, right into Daphne’s fury.
I hate Mondays.
♠ ♠ ♠
Comments = good :)