polaroid angel - dreamnotfound

˖⋆࿐໋₊ 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦

"mr. davidson?"

i feel a tap on my shoulder just as i'm about to enter the elevator.

"yeah?"

it's my boss. he's got a cup of coffee in hand as usual, glasses hanging from the collar of his shirt.
"you'll have to excuse me," he starts, clearing his throat, "i know your shift has ended and i'm sure you're eager to go home, but i have a very special offer for you."

i furrow my eyebrows, observing his unusually enthusiastic expression. mr. herrera is in his mid-30s but despite that he's got the youthful look of a teenager. jet black hair, always nicely combed and greased, sporting a casually formal style of clothing, while staying just within the limits of the company's dress code. he also hates when you refer to him by his last name. as he would've put it himself, "just say carlos, for god's sake."

"and why should i pick up on it?" i question.
"well, there's a new photographer here right now. a freelancer, but he's a rising star. i've seen his work myself, and trust me, he's got real potential. he requested a shoot with someone special, and i immediately thought of you. you're high in demand already, and this could be a huge boost for you."

"so you want me to go do it right now?"
"exactly! this could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" he explains, almost spilling his steaming hot coffee.
"okay.. nude or-"
"yeah, i think he wants to do a nude."

it's four already. technically i'm free to go home and relax for the rest of the evening, but if carlos is so insisting...

"alright, i'll go check it out," i shrug to his delight.
"great! i have a feeling you two will work really well together," he smiles, "he's down on thirty, in room two. the name is dream."
"dream? what kinda name is that?"
"i don't know, but that's what he uses. maybe for artistic reasons."

i hesitantly nod, turning around to be on my way.
"thank you carlos."

he waves goodbye to me as i enter the elevator, picking up his phone to answer a call when the doors close.

dream. mysterious, and... dreamy. i can work with that.

the number on the digital display drops dramatically as i descend. my reflection in the mirror has honestly seen better days. why would they even put up a huge mirror in the elevator of all places? it's almost like they ​want​ to make you self-conscious. i feel like my eyebags are visible and my skin is flushed despite the makeup that was caked on my face this morning. it's always wearing off towards the end of the day, and that's when i realize how trash i really look.

outsiders would probably disagree and tell me that i'm gorgeous, that my skin is flawless and that they could only dream of having a body like mine, but i've got a hard time seeing that. working in this industry makes you picky, and insecure. one little red spot could ruin an entire day of shoots, and a scar an entire career. it's stressful, to put it lightly.

my thoughts dissipate as a robotic voice informs me that i've now reached floor thirty. i step out into the busy hallway, tiredly searching for room two. it's hidden behind a group of large potted plants. i never understood this company's obsession with potted plants, but i guess i can't complain. they keep the air clean.

i straighten my tie and fix my dress shirt. can't look like a mess when i greet a new photographer.

having to wear a tie every single day is such a pain in the ass. i hate it. i wish i could just wear skirts to work instead, like i do in my free time. they make me feel pretty for once. i've spoken to carlos about it, and he said he'd love to let me do that, but there are people working over him. he can't change the dress code. it sucks honestly, but i pull through.

the door to the room is slightly open when i enter. inside, a white backdrop has already been set up, and the camera stands ready on its tripod. nothing out of the ordinary for me. the bright lights make me flinch as i walk past them to get to the back room. i shouldn't have agreed to this. it's too late, i'm too tired. i'll look bad in all the photos.

just as i'm about to reach for the doorhandle said door swings open, and out comes a man who must be at least 5 inches taller than me.

"oh, you're here!" he says, offering his hand for me to shake. it's slightly tanned, and a lot bigger than mine, with a firm, confident grip. his veins are very noticeable.

"george," i greet, my voice way quieter than i intended it to be.
"dream," the man responds, smiling to show off his perfect pearly whites.

to say that dream is tall would be an understatement. or maybe he just feels really big because i'm so scrawny in comparison. he's got beautiful blond hair that falls to his eyebrows in curls. his jawline is sharp, and his face is flawlessly chiseled. almond shaped eyes stare back at me, serious but with a lurking kindness hidden within. the white button-up he's wearing hugs his body nicely. i can tell he's pretty muscular.

he should be a model, not a photographer. he's got everything the agencies want.

"it's a pleasure to meet you george, and i'm really happy to have gotten this opportunity to work with you."
"nice to meet you too," i reply shyly, "if you don't mind me asking, what's your real name?"
"i go by dream. that's all you have to know for now. you can go in and undress while i finish setting everything up, alright?"
"sure."

he walks off to fix whatever needs fixing, and i slip into the changing room. ​

dream. ​okay. just as mysterious as the name suggests. this will for sure be interesting.