“I invented it to get a woman into bed.” The photographer, intent on polishing the long lens he cradled, did not look up. “First time here.”
“What a coincidence,” said the Ad Rep. sat to one side, “getting my clients into bed is my chief concern as well.”
Out the window, awe of crystalline dusk lay upon the great white north and it gleamed ruby red. Before that magnificent backdrop, leaning against the window’s pane like lost property, was a tall, fur-lined boot too stylish to be functional. The men regarded the boot as fisherman do bait upon the line.
The pair’s fates were inextricably linked with that of the faux-footwear.
The inventive snap artist explained his assignment, supplying photo support for a magazine sales campaign yet to come. The Ad Rep, there as product liaison, laughingly informed all who would listen that it was his job to tell lies.
On location, besieged by barren stretches of mountain-hemmed tundra, the pair had nothing to do but drink while swapping bravado.
“Luck was with me,” the lens lothario continued to polish his tool. “That model was none too bright.”
“Never are,” his cohort snorted. “Let me guess; first time gig and a long way from home.”
“Panama beach,” the photographer smiled, “didn’t much care for the cold either.” “So, why not take a drink—warm the blood a bit, right?” Now the Ad Rep. was smiling as well.
“Just a harmless little shot, grandmother’s recipe, of course,” The photographer looked up long enough to wink.
“Truth be told,” he said. “I just knocked together the first two spirits to pop into my head.”
“Lucky it didn't taste like battery acid,” the Ad Rep. shook his head.
“Sometimes a little luck is all that is takes.”