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Her sweet caramel voice silked through my ears once more, I marched into the walkway, peeking into the room. It was well lit, just her, and her voice. Whipped out my camera once more, eyeing for the perfect shot, to no avail once more, my finger pressed the shutter release casually when the sun light was slightly dimming on her, leaving the snippets of fluorescent light to peek through and the ambiance of the vicinity was simply near impeccability, inadvertently flashing my existence into her eyes.

I blushed, wanting to dig a hole in the ground to bury myself into. She walked up into my face, furious, ticked off, I backed off some distance, not running away. “You prick! This is the second time I caught you taking pictures of me!” her tone was teeming with anger, the feeling of being harassed.

“Sorry…” my tone was unsettling after her abrupt outburst, “I’m… just… a…”

“Creep!” she interjected. I was annoyed by such petty behaviour. Her usual voice was very different compared to her singing voice, too different.

“No! I’m just a photographer.” I had to clarify myself, or else I would not stand a shot with her. She was not pleased with my response, I had to be the bigger man, “Sorry if my actions were disturbing you, I wo…”

“Nevermind… it’s your job right?” tinge with a condescending tone, I nodded in assent, “Come on in.” I scanned the surroundings, it was a crammed up lengthy room, sound proof, slapped with the grey sound insulators at every inch of the room, a drumset, an electric guitar with sound system, a mic, and a small sound board at the edge of the room. It was a practice room for her band.

The door flung opened in our surprise, two boys, hipsters walked in, the room was filled with hype, “Yo, Cam! What’s poppin?” the tall one, with few strands of hair dangling across his face, in a pale pink outfit, with a slight native accent, undiscernible, perhaps a Caucasian Malaysian mix.

“Why you so early?” clearly a pure Malaysian, stern features, short hair, gelled, slightly ebony due to the sunlight, just a typical Malaysian on the streets. They stopped and looked at me, “and why is this monkey here?”

“Hey!” I exclaimed.

“Chill bro, just a joke,” he chuckled, nudged me, “big-timer, both of us recognize you, but Cam.” My stance was rather tensed up after the tease, I exchanged glances with Cam, “Your camera broken already still can take photo?” I lifted up my camera, stared at it, trains of thoughts rushed into my mind.

“It’s just a dent, that’s all.” I replied.

“Understatement of the year,” the Caucasian Malaysian said sarcastically. I did not know how to respond, “By the way, where are my manners, I’m John.” He extended a hand of friendship, I shook it, “the singer is Cam, I’m the bassist, and that little boy Zach is the drummer.”

“Glad to know you guys.” I smiled.

“Feel free to drop by whenever you want, to listen to us play or to take some snapshots, I won’t mind if my face got a spot in the posters.” He winked at me, I knew what he meant. They banded together, kicked off their practice as soon as the small convo between us had ended.

As they were practicing, I took photos, hopefully I could sneak off some shots for my stash. I could not help but to point the aperture at Cam for most of the time. I managed to ignore the fact that my camera lens was broken. A distorted glimmer caught the corner of my eyes, recognizing it was from another camera, I turned myself to the door, realised a figure standing outside. I waved them a goodbye, strolled back to where I came from.


Previously : Broken Lens #3

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