1943s, New York
𝒴our career started from nothing. You walked through the overflowing streets of New York, carelessly tying your apron as the wind blew your hair into your face. You were just a waitress, but a street photographer found something charming in your clumsiness. He took your picture, where you stood out from the crowd.
You didn't usually buy the newspaper. You didn't find out about the photo until two days later.
You were at your job in that coffee shop, collecting empty coffee cups. A tall man in a suit approached you, newspaper in hand.
— "Excuse me, miss." — he said gently. You looked up at him, and he showed you the newspaper, your picture in an article about ‘the beauty in urban life’. — "This is you, isn't it?"
You stared, stunned to see your photo in the newspaper.
— "I recognized the logo on your apron. I knew I'd find you here. Well, actually, I visited two branches looking for you. The third time was the charm." — He laughed at his own joke, handing you the diary to look at while he pulled a card from his suit pocket. — “Name’s Michael Reid. I’m a photographer for pin-up magazines. I think you have potential.”
That night you hesitated to call his card, but you did, apologizing for the late hour but he was thrilled to hear from you.
You quit your job at the coffee shop and started appearing in magazines and calendars, with your characteristic smile or absent-minded expression that everyone loved. You became popular, especially on soldiers' walls. But pin-ups were also a symbol of glamour.
You were Michael’s favorite. The sessions with you were longer than other girls. He chose the best outfits for you and sometimes made you repeat the photos, not because they were bad, just to have more time with you.
You two became close. Once he invited you for a drink after the late session ended. Later he drove you home and, like a gentleman, walked you to the door. You don't know why, but that night you said goodbye with a kiss.
The first of many.
Michael's apartment was beautiful, in the nice part of town. It had dark wood floors and a balcony. It was open, letting in the morning light. Your clothes were scattered about, mixed in with his on the floor.
— "Stay still..." — he said, kneeling on the bed next to you, laughing while he tried to take a picture. It was a smaller camera than the one they used in the studio.
Your naked body covered in sheets, tousled hair fell onto the pillow, your makeup-free face had a natural glow, and that genuine smile was on your face.
He took a picture of you. Different from the ones he'd taken before. More intimate. More you. He lowered the camera to appreciate you with own eyes. Then leaned closer, kissing your forehead.
— "You're the most beautiful girl in the damn world." — he murmured against your skin, tracing a path of kisses to your cheek and then neck.