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“Mothman,” I say. “Now, hold still while I angle it right. Move your hand to the left so my hand is on the right cheek, and yours is on the left.”
I try to fit in my face, the pitifully-mustachioed prince’s face, the ass, and the wings of the silver statue in the frame, but I’m having trouble fitting everything in. The prince is too dang tall and big all over; he’s dwarfing the figure.
“Do y’all want me to take the photo?”
A woman wearing gossamer wings and professional makeup resembling huge round insect eyes watches us struggle.
“Sure, that would be great!” I say.
The prince stammers and then lunges for my phone as I hand it over. “I have to ask you not to post this on social media,” he says.
Is he about to tell me the truth?
“Why not?” I ask, biting back a smile.
“Because…because…well, I’m very averse to software and social media companies…selling our identifications to the U.S. military for who knows what. You know about that, right?”
“Ooh,” says the woman with the alien face. “I’m particularly interested in the who-knows-what. I love a good conspiracy theory. Say more!”
I can feel the prince cringing next to me. “It’s not an alien conspiracy; it’s….”
This is when I nudge him with my elbow to his ribs gently and can’t help but notice how solid and warm his body feels. Heat billows below my navel, and I only slightly touched his shirt with my elbow.
At my nudge, he changes course. Ben stands up straighter. “Well, actually, we’re all being surveilled all the time. I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent the aliens from pinpointing my location when they come to clone us.”
Nice save, I think to myself.
The woman’s eyes widen, and she nods like she’s in complete agreement. “I know, right?”
I turn to my companion and smirk.
“And what makes you think they’d want to clone you, sir?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.
Who am I trying to kid? The Favored Prince is everything that every plastic surgeon in Charleston is trying to sell to women of a certain age. Ben has better genes than anyone I’ve ever met in real life.
The prince blusters, but the bug-faced lady exclaims, “‘Cause your boyfriend is hot! H-O-T!” The bug-faced woman follows this up with a giggle that makes me want to hip-check her into the next county before I rein my feelings in. What right do I have to feel territorial? None at all.
“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend,” I say.
Simultaneously, Ben stammers, “She…Hailey…is my tour guide.”
Bug Lady is not listening.
The woman graciously snaps our Mothman-butt-grabbing photo before handing my phone back to me. And then, she rudely nudges me aside to take her own selfie with the prince.
All of my hackles go up.
“Say cheese!” she shouts, her arm around Ben’s waist.
He does not say cheese but smiles automatically and leans in as she snaps the photo.
The bug-faced lady then turns to Ben, leering at him as if willing him to remove his sunglasses. “So, uh, where did you say you were staying?”
“Staying?” Ben asks.
“For the festival. Are you across the bridge at Gallipolis, or are you staying here? I’d love to hear more about your alien theories. Lots and lots more,” she says.
I roll my eyes and look away. She couldn’t be more of a cartoon if she were trailing a finger up his sternum while asking him that.
