Free Pictures of You by Juliette Caron Page A

Art and Frame. Dishwasher at Jo’s Brewery. Hotel Clerk at Comfort Inn. Flower Delivery Person at Basketful of Love…Looks like you don’t keep a job long,” he’d said around a mouth full of red candy. It was true. My personal record was five months. Being a free spirit and all, I got antsy if I stayed any longer. Work just seemed to suck the creativity out of me like a zealous vacuum. Ideally, I’ll become a well-known, highly collected photographer and I’ll quit working on the side all together. Despite my sketchy past, I was hired on the spot. “You’ll be working with Chris. Be here tomorrow at five and he’ll show you the ropes.”
     
    ***
                 
                  If you could overlook some acne scars, Chris, who was around my age, was a pleasant looking guy. Kind of cute, even. He was big-boned but not fat and he kept his butterscotch hair pulled back into a ponytail. Something about his demeanor reminded me of a super hero—I’m not really sure why. He wore a blue jumpsuit that played up his wide shoulders. I couldn’t help but stare at them as he mopped.
                  “September, huh? That’s a name you don’t hear every day. Artsy parents?” Chris said, dunking the mop into a yellow bucket and then wringing it out. The room smelled of urine and coffee and Pine-Sol.
                  “Far from it. My parents are actually pretty boring. They named me and my sister, April, after the months we were born in. I had a brother named December. He died at birth.”
                  “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said, staring at my shoes. I followed his gaze, wondering if I stepped in dog crap or something.
                  “They considered naming us after our grandmothers, but Fanny and Dorothy were a stretch,” I added, mumbling now.
                  Chris unlocked a closet and tossed at me a blue jumper, one like the one he wore. I slipped it on over my clothes. It smelled of chemicals but thankfully not of sweat. I’d take it home and wash it first thing. Chris and I got a real kick out of my little body drowning in endless blue fabric. Apparently it previously belonged to a short guy who weighed nearly three hundred pounds. I’d have to wear it until the company got around to ordering me a smaller one, which could be never, Chris warned. Wearing it made me feel like a big blue Martian.
                  Armed with some heavy duty cleaner, Windex, a scrubby thing and a rag, Chris said, “Let’s start with the sinks. It’s not geometry or anything, but there’s a cool trick to making them sparkle.”
                  We talked and talked and talked while we worked and it didn’t take long for me to notice Chris was the nicest guy in New York City. You hear that about people, but with him it was actually true. On weekends he worked as a volunteer at an animal shelter, one that refused to euthanize unwanted pets. As a result, he had a handful of dogs and cats at his place at any given time, giving them a comfortable home until he could find permanent placements. Animals were his passion. He was currently attending NYU to become a vet. He recycled religiously. He opened doors for me—to all twenty-four restrooms—and said “please” and “thank you” excessively. He had a sweet, shy smile that made me melt like caramel.
                  “September, you have sad eyes,” he said to me on the third day.
                  “Do I?” I stopped wiping the mirror for a moment to study them. I guess they were sad. I didn’t realize I was that transparent. I mean, most days I tried to cement an all-is-well-with-the-world smile on my face. But apparently my eyes were a dead giveaway. I may as well have been walking around with a florescent orange tag on my forehead that read: Hi, my name is September. My best friend died AND my boyfriend cheated on me with my