The Plaza Photographer

I've been here for about fifteen minutes. A photographer, his tripod and camera in hand, has been circling the plaza for a little while now. The night is cool and this is a great spot to sit, enjoy a cup of jasmine tea and write with pen and paper.

A woman and her young daughter come over and sit at one of the other three tables. She sips her coffee and takes a small bite from her chocolate-chip cookie. The child sits in her lap, head against her chest, eyeing and reaching for the cookie with both hands. She tells the child, "No dear, no cookie." She has a British accent.

As I sit here and write of other things, I notice the photographer setting his tripod up in the center of the plaza, facing the tables. He politely asks the woman, "Ma'am, may I take your picture? I've been waiting for someone photogenic to sit down so I could get a shot of the plaza and decorations."

I know I shouldn't look up. I should pretend to be concentrating deeply, oblivious to everything. But curiosity causes a glance and before I can cover it, the photographer notices me and says quickly, "Oh! Not that you aren't photogenic, sir. No offense." He chuckles and smiles at me. I hear the woman laugh quietly.

I know how I look and how I am dressed. I honestly have no desire to be photographed tonight. So I try to downplay it and disappear. I give him a lopsided smile, a small shake of the head and a dismissive wave. "Oh no! None taken. No worries. Sorry." I don't know why I apologize.

The photographer nods appreciatively and goes about taking his shots. The woman continues to drink her coffee and finally gives her daughter the cookie. I go back to my writing and become invisible once more.