Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

antiquated film machine to process the rolls. Rissa raised her head and smiled. "When are you going to fix this picture, George?"
    Turning in the seat he'd occupied for so many nights, she picked up the photo. He crossed the workroom to look over her shoulder. The image showed a small scratch. Nothing else, just a small scratch. The dark stains that had seemed so hopeless when he'd first looked at the print weren't present. Shooing Rissa from his seat, George selected a small brush with shaking hands and touched it to his tongue. Swirling the brush through the remains of the transparent colors on his palette, the same ones he'd used to touch up the white spots left by scattered dust particles on the elementary school pictures, he carefully dotted in the appropriate colors, covering the tiny scratch in less than five minutes. He squinted at the repair critically. The surface would always be damaged, of course, but the blended colors hid the damage from all but the most intense inspection.
    "Bonus time," Rissa looked over her shoulder with a happy grin.
    "You keep the money, Rissa," George protested. "I didn't do much at all." He dug her hundred out of his pocket and returned it. "Turned out, I didn't need to buy anything."
    "If you weren't gay, I'd probably give you a reason to sue me for sexual harassment, George."
    He laughed. "Careful, Rissa. Anyone listening might get the idea that you don't really hate men." He grinned at her. "There's a guy out there somewhere, looking for you."
    She shook her head violently. "No, I'm just gonna focus on this business. No more men."
    "Yeah, I've said that once or twice myself," he admitted, grinning when she laughed. "Then I realized I'd already met the perfect one." He snapped his fingers. "That reminds me, I printed this for you." George reached across her shoulder, flipping through the prints stacked along the top of his worktable. Pulling out the eight-by-ten of a good-looking guy with the dark tan and hypnotic green eyes she'd shot along with the images for Max, he laid it in front of her. "Fess up, woman."
    She shot him the bird but stared at the picture. "He's just another stuck-up pretty boy. I only seem to meet that kind. Probably fucks everything in a skirt."
    George put his hands on her shoulders, giving them a squeeze. "Then give the man a reason to stop."
    "Film's done," Rissa said unnecessarily, since he could hear the buzzer.
    He used the old package printer for the sake of speed, and put the exposed paper onto the print processor, growing more anxious to see the final result of his shots.
    They were spectacular. George watched as crisp images rolled off the processor a few minutes later. He heard Rissa behind him. She leaned around him to peer at the prints. "Dammit," she groused.
    "I know. It's a real tragedy. The train derailed at Cleveland Park. A six-year old boy was pronounced dead at the scene."
    She looked up at him. "That's horrible, but it wasn't what I meant. You're going back to your career, I take it."
    He put his arm around her and gave her shoulders a squeeze. "One day at a time, Rissa. Right now, I just stumbled onto this. I'll scan these and send them to the local stations. That's all."
    ****
    George pulled up the drive to Oliver's secluded home. Parking out front he gazed at the columns across the façade of the stately home, waiting for his heartbeat to slow before slipping the CD he'd burned into the player on his truck. The opening notes from a well-tuned piano made him smile nostalgically. He pushed the volume up full blast and turned to pick up the laundry basket that had the pink Leica nestled on top as Ben E. King began to sing the words to the song he'd fallen in love to.
    He was leaning against his truck when Oliver came out onto the porch, dressed as if going to a fashion show. George leisurely inspected the knife-pleated blue suit pants, grey silk sweater and blue oxford button-down he figured was starched within an inch of its life, cinched at the neck with the perfectly matching plaid silk tie. A stripe in the tie matched Oliver's eyes. It was the look in those blue eyes that made his heart stop as Oliver slowly strolled down the steps, his lips moving to the words. The beard was perfectly clipped at three day's growth, setting off his handsome face to perfection.
    The dimple George adored flashed as Oliver peered into the laundry basket. "Those clothes look clean to me," he said when the song ended, his gaze questioning.
    "I love