Andrew really appreciates the fact that Becca has moved in here.
You see, usually, he's the only one around to bare the brunt of my photo taking fanaticism. He's my only model.
Now he has a buffer, or as he calls her: his understudy.
I like it too. Andrew's a great-looking guy and all--but I can't imagine him ever looking this pretty standing at the kitchen window.
I just happened to walk by, as Becca sat staring at the yard. Something about the soft lighting, the feminine, flowered shirt, and her posture in the country kitchen left only one thought resonating in my mind:
MUST. TAKE. PICTURES.
I snapped three frames before Becca realized I was yet again, photographing her. She dryly stated a snide something that isn't worth repeating.
.
To which, I proceeded to threaten her physical safety if she moved a muscle.
She was kind enough to remain in place for a few more frames before rolling her eyes and walking away. Apparently, she doesn't fear me.
.
Punk.
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