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Mr. Danya
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Sandy cocked an eyebrow at Nadia. Why she thought a chocolate strawberry was the solution to this problem, he had to ponder.

He tried to picture the scene: the gal tracing her date’s mouth with the fruity goody, sensually pushing it past his lips as the cocoa flavour preluded the sinfully sweet juice of the strawberry rushing into every ridge and crevice, the warmth of her fingertips not an inch from his lips.

It was a little bit risqué for a yearbook photo, but he supposed it would probably do better. Maybe.

He didn’t like the sentiment that making the photos actually interesting was doomed from the outset, though: this was his failure, not a flaw in the task itself. A better photographer could’ve absolutely captured the precious moments going on at the dance, and Nadia suggesting otherwise was frustratingly condescending. She meant well, he was sure, but he didn’t care to hear it all the same.

“I’m going to skip all of these, at this rate…” he grumbled again, turning his back to Nadia. He didn’t even bother to bring out another shot, having lost any enthusiasm for the collection by now. He really wished that he could just put these through the shredder, rather than forking them over to the yearbook and immortalising this trash. He knew he shouldn’t have volunteered, it never worked out well for him.

“Show me some of yours.”
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Picture Perfect · East Wing