The mayor has caught me staring. I realize this when he says, “She’s single, in case you’re wondering.”
I look up at the man and he’s giving me a wink. “Oh. I wasn’t. I mean…” I stammer, trailing off like an idiot.
“It’s OK,” he assures me. “I’d better be off. I promised my wife I’d help her decorate our tree tonight.”
We shake hands again and I watch him go, glad-handing a few more of the locals as he leaves. He side-hugs Ruby, who hugs back like it’s a completely normal way to be greeted by the mayor. Gosh, this is a friendly town. Even knowing this, an irrational feeling swells in my belly when I see the mayor put his hands on her, albeit innocently.
Hands off. She’s mine.
My god, where did that thought even come from? I am not that kind of guy.
My eyes trained on Ruby, I use my foot to push out the chair across the table from me, and it makes a loud scrape against the tile. Ruby looks my way, with an expression of someone who can’t quite place who I am.
She saunters over to me with a curious smile.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Aiden. Would you like to join me? Looks like you were searching for a table.”
She smiles. “I was, yeah. Thanks.” She sits down, still studying me quizzically. “Do we know each other?”
Polly sidles up and sets down on the table a large ceramic mug with the name “Ruby” printed on it. The hot cocoa with marshmallows looks too good to pass up, and I ask Polly to bring me one as well. I’ve seen this kind of thing before: local pubs and diners keeping a stash of personalized mugs set aside for the extreme regulars. It’s the kind of local charm that sets off a strange ache in my chest. I’ve never been part of such a close knit community as to have a restaurant owner emblazon a coffee mug with my name. I make another mental note: to ask Polly for permission to go behind the counter and photograph all of the named mugs together; I can already envision how that would look in black and white.
I then explain to Ruby who I am and what I’m doing here: volunteering to document a small town Christmas as part of a federal grant program. Ruby’s eyes light up. “Oh! I think I read about that in the newspaper. You’re super famous, right?”
I may be famous in fine arts photography circles, but I wouldn’t say I’m famous in general. OK, maybe I have about 500,000 followers on my Instagram, but who’s counting? “Aiden McMaster,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand. “Just a photographer, that’s all.”
She slips her warm hand into mine, but her smile become muted. “Ruby Dees. Nothing fancy like you. Just a snow plow driver.”
In my line of work, I come across people every day who downplay what they do for a living. She is the last person in the world I would wish to feel unimportant. “Listen, when the real shit hits the fan, people like you will be keeping society running while I’m just walking around with my stupid camera.”
Ruby smiles a bit brighter. “Points for being kind, but negative points for being a little bit over the top,” she says. “But, since you’re not running for office, as far as I know, I’ll forgive it.”
Sweet, adorable, and a little bit snarky, this woman is captivating me more and more by the second. I like it. I like her. A lot.
I laugh. “I can see why everyone loves you. You say exactly what’s on your mind. Can I take some pictures of you while you’re working sometime?”
Ruby’s answer to this is to look down and stare at her cocoa, quickly losing its heat. She takes another sip, a long one and then looks up at me. “Nah,” she says.
I wait for a follow up explanation, but I don’t get one. In the meantime, Polly delivers my cocoa.
Ruby smirks and remarks, “Hot cocoa and a strawberry milkshake. Hope your insides enjoy a double shot of dairy late at night.”
I ignore the comment and press her on my question. “What do you mean, Nah? Just no? No photographs at all?”
She lifts both shoulders all the way up to her ears in an exaggerated shrug to get her point across. “I don’t like having my photograph taken.”
I sit back in my chair to marvel at this incredible woman. I come across people every day who hate cameras. But people are beautiful. Even people who are not conventionally beautiful. They all have something inside them: a humanity, that deserves to be documented.
Ruby, however, is unequivocally, objectively, drop dead gorgeous in my eyes.
I work very hard not to blurt out what I’m thinking: that I would follow her around like a puppy dog whether or not I had a camera. I’ve done personal portraits for presidents, actors, comedians, candids at major world events. I’ve won every award there is to win for photography, both for fine art and for journalism. I could make her famous if she’d let me do my magic. She would be in magazines. Art exhibits. Museums. She has to let me do my work.
I appeal to her civic duty. “Listen. The mayor has given me strict instructions to include you in this collection. Apparently, you’re everyone’s favorite citizen. You aren’t going to get me into trouble with the mayor, are you?”
The tips of her earlobes that peak out from under her hat turn pink when I say this.
“The mayor exaggerates,” she says, shaking her head and sipping her cocoa some more.
“Doesn’t look like it. A dozen people waved at you when you walked in here, after probably just seeing you fifteen minutes ago at the tree lighting ceremony. The waitress hugged you. So don’t even give me that baloney.”
My attempts at
