We’ve been here since before the golden hour (to get warm sunlight, long dramatic shadows, some wistful wind, and those “glowing desert tones”) and are now working into the evening. Because of the minimal lighting, the crew’s got reflectors set up, along with extra lights.
There’s only time for a few more poses, though, before it’s too dark to get what we’re going for.
“These ‘hate’ poses are killing me,” I whisper to Harmony.
“If only they’d done this photo shoot back in April,” she whispers back, stifling a laugh before she schools her features to be more serious.
We blew through the ‘love’ shots list easily because it was mostly candid. Pretending we don’t like each other, on the other hand, has been a challenge.
The photographer sighs. “Alright, I think that’s a wrap for you two.”
She tells her crew to start putting away all the equipment that applies to us and has them start setting up for long exposures. The crew will stay to get shots of the night sky (to capture stars, midnight blues, and the Milky Way) which will be Photoshopped in later for the full dramatic effect of the “night” part.
On our way back to the car, Harmony gets a message.
“It’s from my parents,” she says. “Family group text. I know it’s weird.”
It’s a little weird, but I think it’s nice that her divorced parents still make an effort to meet up with her at the same time.
“What’s up?”
“They’re both going to be in the city. They want to know if I’m available to go to dinner with them at Pupusalva.”
“Is that the Salvadoran restaurant you mentioned before?”
She nods. “Come with me?”
Jokingly, I inhale through my teeth. “Meet your parents? I don’t know. That sounds kind of serious. I think this might be moving a little too fast.”
Harmony smacks my arm. “Count yourself lucky my dad doesn’t know all the naughty things we’ve been doing or he’d be expecting you to move attop speeddown an aisle with me.”
At the car now, I ease her up against the door, facing me. “Oh yeah? Is that supposed to scare me?”
As I brush my fingers against her neck and kiss her throat, I feel her pulse pick up. I wonder if it scaresher.
“He grew up in a rough neighborhood and always carries a knife.”
“Hmm. Then I’ll try to be on my best behavior. After I take you back to your place, though, I can’t make any promises.”
“Good—don’t.”
Pupusalva is a tiny old hole-in-the-wall type place in East L.A., a mash-mash of salvaged furniture from other restaurants. There are tables and chairs that don’t match (even the chairs at each table don’t come from the same set) and a couple of upholstered booths that aren’t fixed to the floor. The walls are painted blue with a big, horizontal white stripe running through, decorated with ceramic art and woven tapestries. A pair of saloon doors separate the kitchen from the dining zone.
There’s no one else here besides us and Harmony’s parents, who, having already selected a table and been here a few minutes before us, stand up to say hi.
Harmony’s mom looks like her, but older and with a lighter complexion. She’s dressed in slacks and a loose multicolor sweater, befitting a high school teacher.
Harmony’s dad is a couple inches short than me, but the tight expression on his face says “I’ll cut you.” He’s got a short boxed beard, not unlike mine, only his is black with gray around the chin, and he’s wearing a zip-up hoodie over a polo shirt.
“This is Griffin,” Harmony tells them. “Griffin, my parents, Elaine and Hector.”
Elaine smiles and greets me with a hug and says, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Then I extend my hand to Hector for a handshake. His grip strength catches me off guard and he lingers for a moment as if to make a point.
Another woman emerges from the kitchen. She stands about four-foot-ten and speaks excitedly in Spanish, embracing each member of Harmony’s family.
If I recall correctly, Harmony and her parents have been coming here since she was a kid, so this woman would logically be familiar with them.
