Finding Zaide by Kim Deister

I found the new photographer wandering around the top floor, occasionally lifting her hands and moving them around in what looked like a rather lame fight with a ghost. My own skills in photography started and ended with my phone’s camera, but I’d been doing this job long enough to know exactly what she was doing and that I shouldn’t interrupt. She was framing shots in her mind’s eye to find interesting plays of light, good angles, unique backgrounds.

A stepstool stood nearby, so I sat on it to wait for her, watching her as she moved around the open space. She’s younger than I expected. Even though I’d known when I hired her that she was younger than the more established photographers we usually used, I’d still somehow had it in my head that she’d be older than she clearly was. But now that I saw her in person, I realized that she had to be about my age, give or take a year or two.

Young or not, however, she looked the part of a creative type. Her chocolate brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun, skewered into place by three jewel-toned chopsticks. The sunlight filtering through the dirty windows glittered off the one ear I could see from where I sat, the cartilage armored by a stack of tiny silver hoops, a bigger one threaded through her nostril. She wore a pair of olive green Army-esque cargo pants with a black camisole left loose over them. On her feet were a pair of purple Chucks that had probably seen better days. More silver encircled her fingers, her wrists, her neck. Tattoos encircled both arms from wrist to shoulder. Another tattoo, a peacock, nestled its head just beneath her ear, the rest of it disappearing beneath her top. What I could see of it was beautiful. Then she turned toward me, and I realized she was beautiful.

My mouth went dry as our eyes met. The world instantly dropped away, and I forgot how to breathe. Then she smiled brightly, and the world settled back into its rightful place. My breath stuttered, and I fervently hoped she hadn’t noticed the effect she’d had on me. What the hell is wrong with you, Mara? Get your shit together. She crossed the room toward me, dust motes flying up in her wake. When she stopped in front of me, I almost lost my ability to breathe all over again.

Zaide Rossi was even more beautiful up close.