For S/C. Always.
She walks into the pharmacy carrying a box of film canisters and old disposable cameras. As she reaches the photo counter, a portly man steps in front of her and stands there silently. The photo developer is in the back, looking away from them. The man in front of her watches the woman in the back, but says nothing.
She closes her eyes as she sighs, her gaze drifting downward. Noticing all the film, she quickly glances away, twirling a cloud of curling red hair in her wake. The strands bounce hither around her as she moves her gaze all about the store, like a wildfire catching around her, like sunset in the country.
Finally the woman in the back looks up and notices them and comes rushing forward.
“Sorry ’bout that,” she said, addressing the man.
She looks over his shoulder (the woman’s got a large wart on her cheek, thinning dark hair split at the ends) and she looks over her shoulder as a younger lass comes in behind her. Sighing again, she starts reading the titles on a DVD display nearby.
“What’s your name?” A short cough.
“Oh, me?” she says, turning back to the woman. The other man pushes past her as he leaves and the photo developer nods. “Maeve,” she says and swallows, “Maeve Colman.”
She places the box on the counter and pushes them forward. “I need these developed.”