Wide Angle Lens

A bit of a story that popped into my head this morning:

He didn't know why he stayed in this town. He loathed the sight of the same buildings, shelved like cereal boxes, generic ones with no specific color, only the necessary information displayed. However, on Fridays, the past six days came into focus. She always dropped off her film a little past 10. His cigarette smoked, coffee consumed, and a fresh mint melting away the stench of the two, he was made ready for her arrival. Small talk and still observations were all that were exchanged. He knew her preferences: single prints only. The shots were unusual but the composition distinct, unique. The "R" in a Ramada Inn sign; a manhole cover; a stack of books, titles indiscernible; the wrinkled, round mouth of an elderly woman. He knew her full name, address and phone number backwards, but always handed the form over to her, fearful of making her uncomfortable with automatically filling it out himself. He wondered if she even noticed him, if she could place her finger on the way he smelled or any of his habits, speech pattern, anything that distinguished him. Was he ever mentioned in passing to a friend, even in association with the store, or was her Friday encounter with him never anticipated, fretted over, rehearsed, done only as the next item on the list, casually crossed off and forgotten until next weeks agenda was set.

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Not at all complete and don't know that I will. It was just something short that popped into my head.