After the fourth or fifth shutterbug moment, he stops me. "Honey, you can't just take pictures of people's houses and property and stuff."
"Why not? Is it illegal?"
"I don't know, but it makes you look like a spy...or a perv."
"Well I'm obviously neither of those things," I protest indignantly. "If I were, don't you think I'd be more covert instead of standing here on the sidewalk in my sneakers and turquoise running shorts with a big shiny camera dangling from my neck?"
The Big Guy laughs uncomfortably. He is often both repulsed by and attracted to my strangeness (which I more positively refer to as zest for life). It has kept him on his toes for many years now.
"Besides," I explain patiently, "I like to take pictures of pretty things."
"But at the rate you're snapping photos it would seem you think EVERYTHING is pretty."
I tilt my head and smile up at him. The sun is glinting off his sunglasses and I contemplate taking his picture right now.
"Everything is."
