by
Ryan Duclos

There’s a big hot spot behind her but I think I can manage a good shot, I just need to put her a little out of focus and…oh crap. “Hey, hey you, yes you, the one with the camera. What do you think your doing?” Ah, why did she have to notice me now, I haven’t even taken the picture yet.
“Hello Ma’am.” I stated trying to be as polite as I could, these train passengers can be awfully grouchy after their trip.
“Don’t hello Ma’am me, what are you doing?”
“I’ve walked on this bridge many times and have always wanted to take a picture of it. There is a great contrast with the dark floor and the bright light coming from outside, and today I’ve finally brought along my camera.”
I was hoping this was going to be a satisfying enough answer for her and she would quickly be on her way before more people started to crowd the bridge.
“Isn’t that illegal or something, to take pictures out here?” she ignorantly stated.
“No, Ma’am,” I answered, wanting this conversation to end quickly.
“You sure? Well anyways, it’s still kinda creepy taking pictures of people out here don’t you think? You didn’t take a picture of me did you?” I couldn’t tell if her questions were prodding at the notion that she wanted her picture to be taken, hoping that maybe it would wind up in the newspaper or something, or if she was thoroughly concerned with having a picture taken by a complete stranger; which in all respect is quite understandable.
“I haven’t taken the picture yet, but if you wouldn’t mind I would like to have you in the photo. This bridge has a lot of detail on the sides here but the middle is quite lacking.” I thought that I would try and persuade her to be in the photograph, hoping to complement her so she would leave peacefully.
“Hmm, I don’t know, we just met, is that proper?” Her little blow up before must have relaxed her because now she seems to be having a bit of fun with me. “So, should I stand like this, or like this?” She started to pose for me as if we were in a high-rise studio in New York taking shots for her debut break out.
“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind just walking towards the direction you were going before would be perfect.”
“But then you would be taking a picture of my back.”
“Yes, I know, but its more realistic and won’t come off as a snapshot.” I could tell this last comment put her back into the previous mood as before.
“Well then let’s just see if you can take a picture of me now.” She picked up her bag and started walking as fast as she could towards the exit. I scrambled for my camera, focused the lens and…

You know, the picture didn’t turn out half bad.

The Passenger
by Richard Veal