"You've really never shot one of these shows?" the woman asked. 

"Lady, I've never even been to one of these shows," Jim answered.

The woman was a photographer too and, in spite of having claimed to be "totally bitched out" after having shot in a tent for the last week and having had her camera stolen, she had spent the last five minutes giving Jim useful tips on which ISO to shoot and the spots on the runway at which the models paused before the audience.

It was a Friday evening, the end of Fashion Week.  The two were in a ballroom on the fifth floor of the Westin Hotel on 43rd Street waiting for a couture show to begin. 

As far as Jim was concerned, the evening hadn’t started out very well.  His name had not been on the guest list, even though Marlowe had sworn he had put it there.  For a moment it looked like Jim would have to turn around and head back the way he had come. 

But he was in luck.  The two blank-eyed women at the registration desk, not knowing what to do, finally said, "Well, if you're a photographer, I guess you should just go in and set up."  Without having waited for them to change their minds, Jim had entered the ballroom and joined the ranks at the end of the runway. 

The show was twenty minutes late starting.  The word among the photographers was that the designer was from Romania and that this was his first show in NYC.  His flight had arrived late the evening before and the models had had to wait hours and then come back in the morning to have the fitting finished.  No one knew what the delay was now.

At last the lights went up as the first model took the stage.  She was a tall blonde Russian with hips so wide she looked like J-lo from behind.  Wearing a snow white gown, she walked heavily down the runway and then paused at the end for the photographers before moving back and then pausing at the center.

It went that way for another ten minutes, as one pale skinned blonde after another took her turn on the runway.  Jim thought the clothes too ornate and, like the models, just too heavy for the New York market.  Perhaps it was the use of filmy flesh colored fabric to cover bare skin. The clothing resembled those kitsch formal gowns displayed in showroom room windows all along the West 30’s and sold to rich middle-aged Iranian women from Great Neck to wear to their daughters’ weddings. 

Jim didn’t care much about the clothes.  He wasn’t, after all, a fashion photographer.  And he definitely didn’t enjoy shooting in digital color or in such relatively low light, VR lens be damned. All he longed for now was to get the shoot over and done so that he could get the hell out of the hotel and buy himself a Guinness in some dive bar near Port Authority.  He thought there were too many pieces being trotted out and displayed to the audience.  Jim thought of the photographers' old rule of favoring quality over quantity when showing a portfolio.  The designer should have known as much himself.

Suddenly, a model came on stage totally different from the heavy-set Russians.  Jim thought at first that the difference might only be that the newcomer was Asian, the only non-caucasian model to appear in the show.  Then he noticed the grace with which she walked.  When she posed for the photographers, Jim realized she was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.   She had high cheekbones and well defined features framed by a mass of jet black hair.  Jim caught himself holding his breath; then hurriedly snapped off three frames before she turned and moved away. 

From then on, Jim stopped thinking of the shots Marlowe had wanted him to take and instead concentrated only on photographing the beautiful model whenever she appeared.  He cursed himself for not bringing his F3 loaded with high speed black & white film.   Each time she left the stage, he told himself that he was being silly and that he needed to get control of himself.  But a whisper in his heart that told him this woman was truly unlike any he had seen before.  

As though to test the audience’s endurance, the show went on and on, accompanied by the blare of awful music; each model appeared in at least four outfits.  But Jim no longer minded the length of the show.  Time stood still for him as he waited impatiently for the Asian model to again walk onstage in some new ensemble.  On her, the designer’s clothes actually managed to look stylish and sexy.  Jim forgot his indifference as he tried relentlessly to get the best shots he’d ever taken.  His change in attitude had nothing to do with the clothes, though.  For the first time since he’d been in high school, the phrase “love at first sight” came to mind.  Somehow he knew that this woman was the very one he’d waited all his life to meet.

Finally, the show was over and the photographers began packing their gear.  Jim paused, then shrugged his shoulders and put his camera away too.  He was too professional, he told himself, to even think about going backstage to where the models would now be changing.  That was the surest way of blacklisting himself among both models and photographers both.  It was one thing to feel like an infatuated teenager, another to act like one.

Jim rode the escalator down to fourth floor, which was deserted, and saw to his left a set of restrooms.  When he’d finished rinsing his hands in the marble basin, not bothering to look at himself in the mirror, he headed out.  As he stepped past the men’s room door, he saw the Asian model who had so fascinated him exit the women’s room at almost the same moment.  “Karma,” Jim whispered to himself, knowing at once how quickly he would have ridiculed anyone else for saying something so preposterous.

The model glanced at him without really looking and then moved away.  Jim, who normally could not have cared less about his appearance, was conscious what a total wreck he must look in his R.A.G.’s hoodie and Payless sneakers. 

“Excuse me, please,” Jim heard himself say.

The model turned and looked down at him from her six-foot height. 

Jim couldn’t think what to say next.  “You’re so beautiful,” he blurted out.

The model laughed.  There was music in the sound.  “You are so kind.  Or do you say that to every woman?”

Jim shrugged his shoulders.  “I apologize.  Usually, I’m able to act more like an adult.”

The expression in the model’s eyes wasn’t totally unkind.  “So, was there something else?” she asked.

“Listen, I’m a photographer.  I took some shots of you at the show upstairs and thought you might like copies for yourself.”  He held out the D200 with the EVF display towards her.

The model glanced at the camera’s display.  “They look good,” she said as Jim fast forwarded through some of the images he’d taken of her, “but I can’t really tell from this.”

“I could email you the images if you like.”

The model smiled at him.  “I don’t even usually speak to people I don’t know, let alone give them my contact information.”

“I’m not trying to hit on you,” said Jim.

The model looked at Jim silently for a moment through luminous almond eyes.

“OK,” said Jim.  “So I’m attracted to you.  What guy wouldn’t be?  But I’m still not trying to hit on you.”

“My name is Xin.  I don’t have a pen; but if you want to go downstairs for coffee, I’ll write my email address down for you while we talk.”

“My name’s Jim.  And I’ll pick up for the coffee.”

Another musical laugh.  This time, the sound was even sweeter.  “Let’s go then, Jim.”