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“No. And your family can’t be all that bad.”
“Well, that’s debatable.”
“It’s doubtful that they’re so bad that you’d rather spend your entire life as part fish, drowning sailors with screeching siren songs.”
“The gig was attractive when I was ten.”
I take two more shots and then stop to review my digital images. Satisfied with the variety and angles, I announce, “I think that’s everything I need.”
Detaching the camera from the tripod, I place it into my bag and rise back up to begin breaking down the rest of my equipment.
But someone beat me to it.
Foster collapses the tripod legs and then locks everything into place without me having to even tell him how. Carrying the metal stand, he begins to walk toward where my vehicle is parked in a nearby garage.
“So, what’s your parents’ story?” Foster questions as we’re crossing the street. “Divorced or something?”
“Worse. They’re happily married. They always do the right thing and are loved by everyone they meet.”
“Sounds like a total nightmare.”
“A very scary one.”
