Page 37 of Matchmaking On The Menu

Still smiling, I lower the camera and glance toward the big tent when the music shifts to something louder, fuller, pulling people in like an evangelistic healer in a religious town. It presses at the edges of my awareness, low and insistent. It looks interesting, which is exactly why I head toward it. My mask shifts slightly as I move, the edge brushing against my cheek. I bought it online three nights ago, an impulse purchase, somewhere between boredom and bad decisions.

A jester mask. It felt appropriate at the time since my career seems to be a joke. It still does. I have no intention of joining the dancing. I’m simply here to observe and feed that quiet, restless curiosity that feels like a personality trait at this point. The closer I get, the more it builds. The bass settles low in my chest, movement blurring at the edges. The fabric of the tent glows from the inside, shadows shifting across it like something alive and breathing. I stop at the edge of the crowd, close enough to feel it without getting swallowed by it. I raise the camera, bringing it up between me and everything else, letting the lens narrow the world into something I can handle. Something framed. Controlled.

I snap portraits of costumes and masks. Identities swallowed whole, inhibitions set loose.

A clown and a princess clink their clear plastic cups, laughing as they drink.

Click.

A swirl of skirts, fabric catching the light as bodies turn and shift.

Click.

A flash of a purple mask adorned with feathers, something bright enough to burn for a second before it’s gone.

Click.

And then… I see her.

She’s not centered. Not posed. Not trying.

Which is exactly why I can’t look away. She moves like she forgot anyone else is here. The music belongs to her, and she choreographed the dance with reckless abandon.

Laughing, her head tipped back, hands tangled with the woman beside her, spinning, stumbling, not caring when it goes wrong. No hesitation. No performance. Just complete abandon. She’s authentic, unfiltered, unselfconscious as she moves. I bring the camera up without thinking. Again, I don’t bother framing the shot. I just point my camera in her direction and click.

The bright, blinding flash goes off. Impossible to ignore. It cuts straight through the dark. I forgot to switch the flash off.

Fuck!

Her head snaps toward me, big blue eyes locking on me. At first with shock, then suspicion. My stomach drops, and recognition hits a split second later. It’s her. Dannica, the woman from the diner. Of course it’s her. Why wouldn’t it be? The universe has a sense of humor and I’m the punchline. Good thing I came in the right costume. I lower the camera slowly, already knowing there’s no pretending that didn’t just happen. She’s moving toward me. Purposefully.

“Did you just take my picture?”

Up close, she’s—yeah, there’s no finishing that thought in a way that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot. Even with the mask, even with the flush high on her cheeks and the slight hitch in her breathing, she looks celestial. I scrape a hand through my hair. Jesus! See what I mean? Should’ve stopped while I was ahead.

She stops just short of me, not crowding, but not giving me much space either. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her, the faint scent of something sweet and warm. Sugar, maybe? Or whatever she’d been drinking. One hand settles on her hip, the other still loose at her side. Her fingers twitch, like they’re still keeping time to the beat. I hope that’s why they’re twitching and not that she’s about to slug me.

Her chest rises and falls a little too fast. Not panicked. Just… aware. She looks at me, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to say she’s trying to figure me out.

She doesn’t seem angry. More curious, and maybe a little wary. I find myself somewhat relieved that she would have this reaction to a stranger taking her picture. Sometimes small-town folks are less wary of strangers than they should be.

A beat stretches between us as the music continues. People shift around us, bodies brushing past, the space closing and opening again. For some reason, I don’t step back. My feet stay planted as I wait to see what she’ll do next. She doesn’t move, doesn’t leave. Which is my cue to do exactly that. I should walk away. I didn’t come here for the crowd, the noise. I definitely didn’t come here to get pulled into something I can’t control, something I don’t understand yet. Something that already feels a little too easy to step into. Absolutely not. My grip tightens slightly on the camera strap. I should go.

I don’t.

I clear my throat, because apparently that’s all I’ve got right now. She stares at me expectantly, and I remember she asked me a question.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I did.” No point lying.

Her brows lift slightly, just a flicker, but it’s enough. This is when I expect the explosion. But it doesn’t come. No outrage, no annoyance. She does, however, look surprised. Clearly, she expected a deflection or an outright lie.

“Telling the truth, good strategy.”

“I figured honesty might work in my favor.”

There’s a twinkle of mischief in her eye and my fingers twitch to take the shot. “That’s debatable.”

I smile, shifting the camera strap on my shoulder, suddenly hyper-aware of how this looks. I’m a guy, wearing a mask, taking pictures without asking. Exactly the kind of person people don’t trust. To be honest, I wouldn’t either.