For The ‘Gram

I walk out of work, exhausted, and head down the block to the subway, pulling the collar of my jacket closed against the late-December wind that’s kicking up the trash up and down the street. 

I only see her, at first: dark hair in a fetching up-do, short, shimmery, form-fitting skirt, make-up flawless (no mask, natch), legs bare despite the bitter cold, standing at the curb with her hip cocked like she’s waiting for a cab or a movie producer. She’s posed before a beautifully lit plaza, and although the whole thing makes for a lovely tableau, I cannot for the life of me figure out what the situation is: is she coming out of an event, or waiting to go to one, and if so, what event, and where?

Then I notice the guy kneeling by the curb, taking her picture on a small camera, and I realize I’m probably seeing some sort of Instagram thing, just the two of them, maybe her with her boyfriend, having him take her picture to recreate some sort of facsimile of glamour from which she can gain some internet notoriety, maybe some likes, and who knows - maybe it’ll go viral.