Limerance

1

8 of February 1987

Dancing was always something that I keened.

I loved the late nights, the pulsing music, and the lively chatter. I didn't live my life in clubs or at parties on a daily and never planned to, but the vibrant atmosphere never ceased to captivate me.

But on the other hand, I didn't like being in large events with crowds, it is my my worst nightmare—ironic, considering my profession. But with time, I've learned to tolerate them. When I was younger, I'd often stay home with a book or listen to the radio, avoiding social gatherings at all costs.

My high school friends were always understanding, but I could tell they sometimes grew weary of my reclusiveness. My older sister, who shares the same anxiety, helped me navigate through it. She's in the medical field, which I'm incredibly proud of. I study law and work as a photographer to help pay for school.

I glanced at myself in the mirror, adjusting my outfit: an oversized black leather jacket, an untucked white button-up shirt, black denim shorts, and some black leather boots. I checked the clock.

8:43 PM.

"Shit, I'm late," I muttered, quickly removing the curlers from my blonde hair.

I grabbed my bag and camera and headed for the door, pausing briefly to take a final look before closing it behind me.

As I approached the arena, I was greeted by a sea of parked cars and heavy traffic. Spotting the VIP entrance, I drove over. A man approached my window, and I rolled it down.

"Hi! Card?" he asked.

"Hi! Card? I'm sorry, I don't have one. I'm the photographer," I explained.

He chuckled, and I raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, and I'm Axl Rose," he laughed.

"Sorry, not getting it," I retorted with a hint of arrogance.

"You're not getting in without a card," he insisted. "If you are *the* photographer, you should have one."

"Look, I understand you're just doing your job, but I really am the photographer. Here, see my camera?" I showed him my Canon.

"That doesn't prove anything," he shot back.

"Listen, I don't know what else to tell you... I don't even like the band playing tonight," I hissed.

That was a lie.

I enjoyed them. How could I not? Their music was everywhere—on the radio, on TV.

"Take a photo of me," the guard said, smirking.

"Wait, what?" I replied, stunned.

"If it's good, I'll let you through," he offered, still grinning.

I quickly pulled out my camera and turned it on. The guard ran his hands through his hair, trying to strike a pose. I snapped two shots, silently praying he'd approve. When I showed him the pictures, he scrutinized them closely.

"Not bad," he finally said, making me smile, "but they could be better."

My smile faded. I had to get in. I needed the money.

"Please," I begged, "I'll do anything. I can't afford to lose this job."

He paused, then extended his hand. "A hundred bucks. Take it or leave it."

"I don't have that kind of money," I protested. "That's almost what I'm getting paid tonight."

"How about thirty-five?" he countered.