Page 77 of Matchmaking On The Menu

I hesitate, then open it. I remember the owner leaning over the counter that first week, asking for my details. I’d nearly said no—privacy, control, all the things I’ve gotten used to guarding without thinking about it. But my email address was ambiguous enough, and then he’d mentioned discounts.

My dad’s voice moves through my head, low and matter of fact. You don’t stay comfortable by wasting what you’ve got, kid. He used to say it when he wiped grease off his hands, like it was just another rule of the world.

So I’d handed it over. And now here we are.

I scan the email as I walk. A promotional thing. Happy hour on Sundays. Reduced prices.

A reluctant smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. It’s ridiculous how quickly my brain shifts gears, how easily it reframes something into acceptable. It’s not about going there. It’s about the deal. About not ignoring an opportunity out of stubbornness.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

My thumb hovers over the screen, then I lock the phone and slip it back into my pocket.

A discount’s a discount. And this one doesn’t involve a blue-eyed waitress. It’s the print shop. It’s safe.

I can work with safe.

I take up a steady pace again, the cool air and open road doing what the apartment couldn’t. But my mind drifts back anyway. To the image of her still up on my camera. To the photo of her I didn’t have it in me to edit before I left. Because seriously, there wasn’t a lot to edit.

The memory hits differently now. Not as sharp. Not as overwhelming. Just there, sitting underneath everything else, quiet and persistent.

Distance. That’s still the plan.

Printing a photo isn’t breaking that. It’s work. It makes sense to print the image that’s been pulling me out of months of nothing. I don’t need to see her to do that. Don’t need to stand in the same space, breathe the same air, risk whatever that moment at the festival turned into.

Kissing her mask.

Jesus.

I huff out a quiet breath, equal parts disbelief and irritation. Not exactly the kind of moment to be proud of. Which is exactly why this works.

I can separate the subject from the work. That’s the job. It always has been. Right? The photo isn’t her. Not really. It’s what I saw. What I managed to pull out of a single moment before it disappeared. And if I hold it in my hands—see it outside the screen, outside my own head—then maybe I can prove to myself that I didn’t imagine it. That whatever’s been missing isn’t gone.

The kind of shot that used to come naturally. The kind that made it feel like I was actually seeing the person on the other side of the lens, instead of just photographing them.

My jaw shifts, the tension easing just enough to let something steadier take its place.

That’s all this is. A small, quiet compromise. I can live with that.

By the time I circle back toward the apartment, the decision feels solid enough to hold. Sunday. Print the photo. Get what I need and leave it at that.

I step inside, the quiet settling around me differently than it did this morning. My gaze moves automatically to the camera.

I don’t go closer. I don’t need to. Sunday’s already fixed in my head with a certainty the rest of this week hasn’t had. For the first time in a while, I’m not dreading what comes next.

I’m waiting for it.

The bell above the print shop door announces me. Given the happy hour, I expected a queue, but there are only a few people browsing frames or flipping through sample books at the unhurried pace of a Sunday afternoon.

The owner looks up from the counter. His gaze lands on me. A beat passes.

“Congratulations. You’re the ten-thousandth customer of the year.”

I stop mid-step. “I’m sorry—what?”

He straightens slightly. “You’ve won a prize.”

“Ten thousand customers.” I try not to sound skeptical. “This year?”