By Brennen H. J.
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Extra info for A New equation of state
The dark room spun in a haze above her. It’s all a terrible dream. I’ll talk to you tomorrow my friend. It seemed like minutes later when the phone attacked her ears with a determined peal. By the third ring the receiver was at her ear, her mind still in deep sleep. Finally…Catherine. The voice on the other end was speaking to her. “What? Sorry…” she croaked, the words coming out like she was clearing her throat. “This is Detective Flynn. ” The world came crashing into focus with horrifying clarity.
By five o’clock she was relieved at the prospect of shooting the last outfit. It was a daringly high cut, bright yellow zipper front swimsuit that was an ode to a decade when “Christy” referred to Brinkley, not Turlington. As usual, things became rushed as the client pushed to end the shoot before twenty minutes past the hour. That was the magic minute when models had to be paid for the extra hour’s work. It was amazing how many photo shoots ended at nineteen minutes past. As time was at a premium, Makedde was forced to change on the beach with a towel held in front of her by the embarrassed photographer’s assistant who did his best to look the other way.
Perfect for minimising nipple-itis. The chilly day dragged on. Lunch consisted of some rather sad, wilted salad greens that the photographer’s assistant was sent away to fetch. Makedde could have sworn she saw the photographer scoff down a cheesy focaccia and a beer when no one else was looking. By five o’clock she was relieved at the prospect of shooting the last outfit. It was a daringly high cut, bright yellow zipper front swimsuit that was an ode to a decade when “Christy” referred to Brinkley, not Turlington.