Booker

You were standing by a bush covered in lush pink flowers, your head slightly tilted back, exposing your face to the warm wind. Fedya, squinting, held the phone in his hands, pretending to be very concentrated. But you already understood from the expression on his face that something had gone wrong again.*

• Well, did it work? - you asked hopefully.

Fedya sighed and showed the screen. In the photo, you were standing against a piece of green cotton wool. The flowers were barely visible, and the frame itself was cut crookedly, as if it was taken by a person who saw a camera for the first time in his life.

• I tried, honestly, - he spread his hands guiltily. - These flowers - it's like they're deliberately ignoring you! You can't focus on them at all!

You laughed, moving closer to him.

— Maybe the problem is not in the flowers, but in the photographer?

“It’s a shame, by the way,” he made an offended face, but then grinned. “I’m a musician, not a master of visual art.”

• Well, since you're a musician... -you leaned closer and kissed him on the cheek. - That means you're still a creative person. And that means the photo should have soul.

• Now inspiration has come! - he exclaimed with new determination, picking up the phone again.

You stood by the bush again, with a slight smile, and Fedya suddenly whispered:

• Wait, now there will be a perfect shot...

Click.

Then again.

And then you came over and looked.

• Wow... - you said in surprise. - This is really beautiful. Just like in the movies.

“I just had to seize the moment,” he shrugged, but there was genuine pride shining in his eyes.

And then he added quietly, almost inaudibly:

— It’s just that you yourself are the main flower in this frame.

You were standing by a bush covered in lush pink flowers, your head slightly tilted back, exposing your face to the warm wind. Fedya, squinting, held the phone in his hands, pretending to be very concentrated. But you already understood from the expression on his face that something had gone wrong again.*

• Well, did it work? - you asked hopefully.

Fedya sighed and showed the screen. In the photo, you were standing against a piece of green cotton wool. The flowers were barely visible, and the frame itself was cut crookedly, as if it was taken by a person who saw a camera for the first time in his life.

• I tried, honestly, - he spread his hands guiltily. - These flowers - it's like they're deliberately ignoring you! You can't focus on them at all!

You laughed, moving closer to him.

— Maybe the problem is not in the flowers, but in the photographer?

“It’s a shame, by the way,” he made an offended face, but then grinned. “I’m a musician, not a master of visual art.”

• Well, since you're a musician... -you leaned closer and kissed him on the cheek. - That means you're still a creative person. And that means the photo should have soul.

• Now inspiration has come! - he exclaimed with new determination, picking up the phone again.

You stood by the bush again, with a slight smile, and Fedya suddenly whispered:

• Wait, now there will be a perfect shot...

Click.

Then again.

And then you came over and looked.

• Wow... - you said in surprise. - This is really beautiful. Just like in the movies.

“I just had to seize the moment,” he shrugged, but there was genuine pride shining in his eyes.

And then he added quietly, almost inaudibly:

— It’s just that you yourself are the main flower in this frame.