The Photographer’s Tale

The Photographer’s Tale
She arranged herself on the squishy seat. “Gees, I look good,” she breathed arranging herself for the photographer she knew was here to take photographs for the launch of the new’ Local Woman’ magazine.
Flicker, the photographer, had been leaning tiredly against the jam of the nightclub door, too bushed to pretend enthusiasm for yet another gathering of females out on the town. It had been a busy day. The office window had been stuck shut again. He’d had no air and very little time to eat. That’s what comes of having a skinny assed bitch woman for an editor, he fumed. Then he saw her. The short figure hugging dress she wore fitted her like a glove. Showing off her curvy figure in all the right places. Tottering on heels that would require planning permission if they were a building, she gave a dewy- beery glance at him and turned away. His eyes tracked her progress to the bar. Her ass, the size of a small village hall swayed as she walked. Suddenly, he was alive. He straightened his wrinkled shirt, ran a hand over his chin, felt his six o’clock shadow and followed her.
He liked big woman. He waited. She reappeared from the crowd thronging the bar, glass of red wine in hand confidence in every swag of her thighs.
She threw him a look that said.Take my photographer. Who said big woman couldn’t look fabulous?
Flicker readied the camera and leaned back to get a better shot of her breasts shining like two golden globes before his eyes. Was it his imagination or had her sloe black eyes cast a shadow over him? Naw! She couldn’t have, could she? Not from across the room.
He checked his digital takes. Perfect symmetry. Two golden eagles restrained by the tightness of the dress ready to take flight. He was sure of it. His editor might not appreciate the artful curve of the Luna moons. And he knew the skinny bitch would never let it be a front page hit. He didn’t care.It wasn’t often he came across such a beautiful girl proud of her own body. Usually it was skinny girls thinned to within an inch of their life posing with fake smiles. This was a woman. He liked big woman; something to hold on to in bed at night.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, he told himself. And Behold! Whoever meets this babe tonight will definitely get an eyeful. He sighed longingly.
“Living dangerously, mate,” a tattooed muscle bound man beside him stated, following gaze of the camera lens.
“I want to ask her to dance. Hold her in my arm,” Flicker blurted out. “But I work freelance for the skinny bitch in the local Gazette… Feeling foolish and out of his depth, his voice trailed off.
“Yeah, she is a beauty – and big,” the other man mused. “Kinda fancied her myself…until I heard…” he hesitated.”Those sloe black eyes can pin you down from across a room.” He shook his head, studied flicker’s camera lens. “Those pictures, images, you have there…they’ll fade away – turn into an old hag by the time you’re ready to show them to your bitch editor,” he advised, beginning to walk away. Flicker hugged the camera to his chest; stood, uncertain what to do. Should he Leave it behind the bar for a bit. Dance with her?
Before he could make up his mind the tattooed man was back for another round. He saluted the photographer and proffered a pint. “Here, drink that down. It’ll do you more good that that witch’s brew”
Flicker pushed the beer aside.
“No! It’s true. I’ve been there mate. Go to bed with the likes of her, a beautiful girl – wake up with an old hag.”
It was then flicker noticed the man’s tattoo artwork. It worked its way around his neck and down his chest. Two golden Luna moons and an old hag’s toothless, grinning smile.
Yeah, that’s right,” the man said seeing the horror dawning in the photographer’s eyes.
“She’s a devil worshiping witch.