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from SEATTLE
Rypdal's sleeveless vest and bulky, flapping pockets made him loom large, but, she realized, as her first week's training went on, he was actually thin. The ferocity of his focus left her awed and fearful. Though she waited for him to find her inadequate and let her go he didn't seem to find that a priority.
She puzzled, worried.
She still had the Institute's ageing diploma. There had been the group shows, the attempts at art sale.
She'd finally concluded that though employees could place up to ten images in the company's files and she'd thanked Rypdal and told him she'd put some of her images in, he saw he as neither a client nor a potential customer: she wasn't a photographer who'd rise or fall on vision, energy, the constant, vigorous practice of a profession. She was a clerk. She was a loyal and perfectly adequate clerk with years of library experience and a basic grasp of the concepts.
But down the years she and Rypdal still grinned at each other if her were in town, the building, the corridor, if he registered her presence, almost as though he recognized a parity between them. |
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