“Smile.”
I said that, like I meant it, like the million times I’ve said it before. But on my face, is the fakest smile in the world that I force forth, but impossible to be seen through.
It’s impossible, because it’s my job, to study, to know, to understand, and to capture, the perfect image. The perfect pose, in the precise situations, presenting the ideal expression – all of that, and I’ve mastered them so much. So much… as to that I’ve learned to practice them in my life. And somewhere along the way, I feel like, at last, I knew it all.
“Perfect,” I widen my smile, a flawless performance, as I stare at the miniature wedding couple that was in my camera.
I look up at them, and they are looking at each other with a relieved smile. But in between that weariness from the continuous wedding plans, the sleepless nights, there is something so visible – something people said can’t be caught on a camera precisely, which I strongly disagreed – love. The look in their eyes is unmistakable. All that loving, all that sweetness, possessiveness, protectiveness, happiness, safety, assurance, everything… everything is impossible to fake.
I sigh quietly, really frustrated. I no longer believe in marriage, after the seventh couple I photographed for at their wedding got divorced. It seems love wavered faster than that rainbow after the rain stops.
The couple in front of me, soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, is one of those couples that seemed one hundred percent compatible. One of the beautiful ones, too. Danielle Mackinson has a statuesque face that could allow her light reddish gold hair being pulled back loosely, with high cheekbones, distinct jaw line, nearly full lips and deep-set turquoise eyes. Holding her is
Tears touched my eyes.
“Tay!” Danielle exclaims. “No tears!”
I smile, forcefully. Emotion is always a stubborn wall of defense from the sin of lies. But it’s no match towards the lies I could give with my words, “it’s just that… you know, I can’t believe you’re getting married!”
Of course I could. I definitely can believe that little Danielle, the adorable, sweet Dani, was getting married. She is a perfect image of matrimony. A perfect girl – the girlie type, the nice type, the loving type, the dedicated type, not a drop of nasty in her. That’s Dani. Perfect stay-home wife, Dani. But maybe there’s still this little shock at the small corner of my heart. Dani and Pete met less than a year ago, got engaged in six months and then, now… well, this was it. They say moving too fast was bad, and I’ve seen enough proof of that, but for Dani and Pete… well, it’s perfect. It can’t go wrong.
As her psychopathic protective best friend, I did my job of background-checking – and walah, the perfect guy. Born in a small town in Connecticut, grew up with loving parents and the eldest of four, never fooled around in high school, had only one girlfriend throughout high school, another in college and then it, tada, Dani – third time’s the charm, I suppose – and Christian like Dani, doctor-to-be, and above all, he’s what Dani hoped for. He is the reason we sat out late at night, Dani crying her little eyes out, shoving buckets of ice cream in her mouth time and again – to get to him.
And it’s a miracle. The prayer of a best friend answered, so that her best friend shouldn’t have to settle for less – not that I pray. I mean – me, I just… don’t believe in God anymore as far as being watched over was concerned. Certainly there’s a higher being, but I’m convinced that counting on that would break all things – all your drive to work hard, to search for answers and really, really try. But I admire people with faith towards Him and I believe in a sense, but I have no patience to practice it – to wait for miracles instead of making them happen.
“Hey,
I return his smile with a practiced one of mine.
Yes, I love my job. Right.
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