Save My Day (boyxboy)

18 Never Apart

Eventually, I stop fidgeting and giggling long enough for them to finish with me only to send me over to wardrobe. The stylist pulls out a pair of gray trousers and salmon-colored button down shirt. Once I change into them with Christopher’s ‘help’, I walk back out to get bombarded by accessories.  Socks, shoes, necktie, leather jacket, wristwatch, and a belt complete the outfit. Then, the outfitter pushes me out of her area and into the place where they’re to take the pictures.

When they get the lighting situated, the photographer has one of his assistants put on some music. As the first song comes through the speaker system, the photographer tells me exactly what to do.

“Pose like this.”

“Put your hand near your face.”

“Lean back into the wall.”

“More smile.”

“Topher, stop making him laugh.”

“More sultry.”

“Less edgy.”

“Good, just like that.”

Then I’m pushed back to wardrobe and the process repeats itself. For a good portion of the day, I’m posing and laughing; singing and dancing. These clothes come off, those go back on. Questions get asked to make my mood change or just keep thing interesting.

At one point, when I’m told to take a few minutes, Christopher walks onto the shoot area and grabs me in his arms. Instead of the hug I was expecting, my husband starts to dance with me to the still playing tunes. One arm snakes around my waist, while the other takes my hand in his. The song that’s sounding over the speakers isn’t exactly slow so we’re moving quite fast. It’s closer to a swing dance than a ballroom waltz. Either way, I can’t help laughing.

The laugh becomes one of those full body, head thrown back, careless joys that’s almost indescribable. The lighter than air feeling where nothing in the world matters. It’s that knowledge that you probably come off as a total wanker, but you’re so happy that how you look is irrelevant.

When my husband pulls me back to him to rest against his chest, I lean my head onto his shoulder, still smiling, to catch my breath.

“I’m glad you came,” I admit pulling back slightly to look into his eyes. “Thank you.”

He pecks me slightly on the lips, “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

It’s then that I hear the faintest little clicks. Turning my head, I see the photographer on his knee next to us holding his camera to his face and moving it in different angles.

“Don’t move,” he shouts suddenly. “But, stop with the constipated look, Damon.”

“What are you doing? I thought this was a break,” I ask, but I don’t move as he walks around us snapping pictures.

“I’m an artist. I see something and I use it,” he explains, but doesn’t go any further.

Shaking my head slightly, I chance, “Can I move now?”

He waves his hand as if he’s swatting a fly, “Go ahead and do your interview. I have everything I need.”

“Are those last ones going to end up in the magazine?” I question as I detach myself from Toph.

The photographer shrugs, “If your husband signs a release waver they can. That’s up to you.”

“Can we get a copy of them?” My best friend adds to the conversation.

“Sure, kid. I’ll copy them to a disk and send them over to Damon’s people.”

“Looks like we have a picture of over the mantel,” Toph presses his lips to mine quickly as we walk over to wardrobe.