Introductions are short, and while we live through them, no one seems to notice that one introduction will soon lead to another.  And then another.  Until we're all just sitting here, waiting for a new introduction--a new human to offer a handshake to--one that will never come.  Or one that will leave very quickly.

I often find myself waiting for so many things, so many times.

For the printer to spill out what I ask for.  For the phone to ring and the doorbell to chime.  For the washing machine to finish rumbling so I can retrieve my clean socks.  For the rain to pass so that I can wait for it to rain again.

I fight against time, a battle that takes two hands and twice as much bravery.  I keep wishing that time would move faster, smoother.  Something that would make me move harder.  There is too much time to waste between the seconds and too many ways to live between the hours.

Time is a monster, worse than man himself.  And any effort to withstand it is vain.

It's always like this, but I don't want it.  Not anymore.  I'm tired of the moving time, while I stand here, helpless and without a sense of direction.  I've waited so long to reach the end but it only gets farther.  

What they say is wrong.  And I know it now.

Good things don't always come to people who wait.

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Tuesday.  

I'm on a mission to monitor a photo shoot at the studio, a quiet day.  I anticipate half-hearted smiles and perishing grins as the cameras flash over and over again. I'll pass hours under blaring fluorescent light bulbs that will pierce every inch of my skin and glare off the lens of my camera.  I love these types of days, because images of ugly lines and sharp faces--I get to see them all.

I sit by the window, my backside keeping warm the surface of an uncomfortable wooden stool.  The window is open, and drowsy gusts of wind surge over the sill.  The air around me is dank, and I see the dust littering the air before my eyes.  The sky is a musky gray.  The streets are busy.

I remain out of the way of the photographers and models already hard at work, resting my hands on my knees as I watch.  Quiet.  My camera sits in my lap.  Everyone stands ready before the backdrop.

No one is smiling.

The flickering of the cameras begin, and the models fall under a spell of stoic expressions and stiff poses.  Pretentious gazes flood my vision and the cameras drink it all in.  The cameramen hover like insects around the human mannequins, fingers instinctively flashing the shutters of their cameras.  Their eyes never leave the viewfinder but I know they're not looking hard enough.

The thinnest model, a female with rods for arms and stones for eyes, stands like a fixed statue.  The expensive fabrics draped across her shoulders act like birds, resting--as if restraining her from relaxing herself.  Her limbs hang beside her, expressionless.  Her body looks unnaturally stiff, yielding to awkward poses--yet no one adjusts her.  Her eyes are dark.

She's hidden in the shadows but no one seems to realize this either. Her features are eluded by a curtain of avoidance and mystery. I want to tell her to turn to the left, turn to the right.  A simple change to her pose would put her out of her misery.  She looks wary as her eyes meet mine, begging me to give her a hint.  I stare back, my eyes turned up to say you get what you deserve.  You signed up to be the tailor's dummy.  Now live with it.

My lips are frozen.  I don't say a word.

But I scowl.