Listening with obvious interest, Jim barely touched his beer. The whole of his focus was on Phoebe. How she looked, what she said, how she said it, how she drank her beer… that was all that was important. He could have a beer any old time. It wasn't every day he enjoyed an afternoon like this; in fact, it had been days beyond counting since he last had enjoyed an afternoon anything like this one! He loved the play of light across her caramel skin, especially when she smiled.
"Well, you've got to pay the bills, yeah," Jim admitted ruefully. "Can't tell you how many times I had to deal with clients that I really didn't want to."
His voice and face were both full of disbelief as he continued onwards, though. "But, seriously? Just a hobby? Hasn't this guy ever heard of Ansel Adams? Or William Carrick? Or Jane-Fulton whats-her-face? What about that war guy, Heslop or something?" Jim shook his head disparagingly as he reached for his beer and took a sip. "Don't get me wrong, I don't know much about the industry. But I've spent enough time in art galleries and museums at all sorts of high class shindigs enough to know that photography is as real an art form as painting or sculpture or any of the rest of it. And… that if your'e good at it, you can make a living off of it. Just like anything else."
Relaxed by both the atmosphere and Phoebe's presence, Jim felt compelled to be candid with her in his opinions. "Forgive me for saying this, Phoebe, I know it's not my place to do so, but… If this Dillon guy is so down on photography, he might not be the best of guys to work for. Check around, see if anyone else is hiring. Ask customers if they wouldn't mind sitting just for one extra pic, one you set up yourself. Some'll say no, some'll say yes. Just have fun with it!"
An idea struck him, and with furrowed brow Jim glanced down at his suit coat pocket and dug a hand into it. "In fact," he mumbled as he drew something out. "Ah, there it is. Wrong pocket."
A flier was tossed onto the table between them. It was folded and crinkled and dogeared, but the paper itself looked fresh. Jim smoothed it out on the table's surface to reveal that it was a brochure from the Buffalo Historical Society; a calendar of events was listed on the one side, and it was to this that the older man jabbed a finger. A number of fall and winter events were scheduled, everything from an exhibit on local funeral homes to holiday celebrations for Halloween and Christmas. In the middle of it all, the tip of his finger tapped on a specific listing.
"Look, I was over at the Historical Society yesterday, looking for stuff to keep me occupied. This is one of those fliers museums are always giving out. You know, looking for volunteers, patrons, here's our mission goal, blah-blah-blah. Now it says here that end of October they're hosting a showing of local talent whose work focuses on life in Western New York." Jim jabbed it again. "Twenty-five bucks to register, and it's a juried show… whatever that means."
He raised his eyes to look at her purposefully. "Why not apply, Phoebe? Show this Dillon guy that you're serious, that you're just not another warm body working in his studio?"