CHAPTER III: MAGIC GO-AWAY STICKS

MOST people were at work on weekdays.

Gian was no exception; he left for work this morning while Akira reviewed and edited a shoot from home.

It started as a simple hobby, until photography became the course of education for Akira. She enjoyed it so much that she practically had to beg her parents for it (they wanted her to major in accounting), invested in it, practiced it, graduated with a degree in arts, and worked several gigs with other jobs on the side so she could move to the city and qualify for a small savings account.

When she decided to begin treating photography as a serious source of income, Akira barely got booked and it was extremely difficult financially and mentally. Here she was, living in a cheap crammed dorm with nothing but a single professional camera, a laptop she had been using since college, and a constantly throbbing head thanks to her obnoxious roommates.

Akira’s dream of thriving in her craft hung by a thread and she wracked her brain for days, gauging the state of her life in the capital and questioning whether anything was still worth it.

Excellence just wasn’t enough.

Akira could be the most talented person alive but she grew up surrounded by laborers, and was well aware that talent is useless if you can’t make money off of it. As a last resort, she whipped out all of her remaining savings and risked it in a tiny studio in the Metro.

Whenever her services weren’t booked by clients, Akira spent her null hours hammering business information in her brain. She was young and frankly a little dumb about running an actual shop, so she invested in herself this time. No mogul or bogus customer could fool her by the time she learned all the basics.

Two and a half months later, Akira’s studio earned the money back.

When her pictures gained some fame from social media, Akira used it to her advantage to attract new clients. Earning more was a double-edged sword though, and managing the studio alone spread her thin. So, when she’s had enough of being a one-woman show, Akira analyzed the profits that she didn’t even realize had ballooned, and it was a glorious window of opportunity to hire help.

She employed a few staff to man the studio and boost marketing. This doubled the number of clients and it basically snowballed since then: a couple more staff, better equipment, bigger studio, faster systems.

Best of all, a place of her own. Zero obnoxious roommates.

Well… living roommates, that is.

Akira preferred to work at home, and just occasionally visited her shop for monitoring, reports, or appointments. Of course, she was mostly hands-on and meticulous on the photo-capturing and editing part of the job.

It was the perfect set-up. Akira was her own boss and she controlled every aspect of the business.

She pulled an all-nighter once: a tedious case of producing rush ID pictures for a company of more than one-hundred employees, due 8:00am tomorrow. She had the studio staff handling smaller orders and assigned this to herself.

Her back hurt and lids felt heavy, but Akira needed to soldier through the process using her bottomless desire of making sure this big client books her again in the future.

And also, a fridge full of Red Bull.

Popping open her third energy drink by 2:24am, Akira walked sluggishly to her work desk in the living room and found someone staring intently at the computer.

Spent and pressured to assemble an output, Akira lowered her defenses and just didn’t give a damn anymore.

“Get out,” She ordered firmly, pointing at the direction of the door. “I’m working.”

It was a woman in her late fifties, clad in a silk nightgown that showed her fair skin and huge chest rather provocatively. Her body absorbed the light from the monitor and ceiling instead of bouncing off, making her appear see-through… almost glassy.

“He’s cute.” Her filler-injected lips formed into a pout that pointed on the screen. “Give me a copy.”

“Please stop staring at the client.” Akira sighed and placed the cold can on the desk. “Even if I print you a billboard-sized copy, you can’t touch it anyway.”

“Ah, right.” The woman clicked her tongue and stepped away, scanning Akira’s work area instead. “Because I’m dead.”

“Exactly, Tonya… because you’re dead.” Akira spun in her seat and went back to editing. “Now leave me alone and stop hovering.”

Tonya was the single stubborn stray in the apartment building Akira lived in, years before she moved in with Gian. The woman was a handful, attention-seeking, and insecure. She constantly appeared during times when Akira wanted complete silence, and endlessly talked about rumors involving the neighbors or gave Akira backhanded compliments.

In a nutshell, Tonya was annoying and she liked irritating Akira on purpose.

“Your new eye bags suit you,” Tonya teased, prancing around the apartment like it was her own. Well, she did own it approximately three years ago but it was Akira’s property now.

“Tonya, I’m asking nicely,” Akira huffed, not once taking her eyes off the screen. “Leave… or I’ll force you to leave.”

“Hija, you sound like you’re my age and if you don’t sleep, you’ll look my age too.” Tonya crossed her arms but then placed her palms dramatically on her cheeks. “Except I don’t look my age at all.”

“It’s the Botox,” Akira answered monotonously.

“You’re a non-believer, that’s why you’ll look sixty in two years.” Tonya pointed a perfectly manicured nail at Akira’s forehead and smiled dreamily, like a Hollywood actress in a black and white movie. “I don’t regret anything. I’m dead and I still look like a million dollars.”

“Didn’t you die from a boob job gone wrong?” Akira deadpanned. “You sure you don’t regret anything?”

“Grumpy, grumpy, grumpy.” Tonya spun and walked around the living room, before pointing at the blue box placed on the coffee table. “Oh honey, still a smoker? No wonder you have an attitude.”

Akira grunted exasperatedly and took her hands off the keyboard and mouse, spinning her chair to face Tonya.

“Really pushing your luck, huh?”

“Empty threats, hija.” Tonya flashed a pearly white smile. “Tell me the gossip about that little dork you brought here the other night.”

Akira shook her head in disbelief and reached for the cigarette box. “Go away, Meddling Myrtle.”

“Grumpy.” Tonya placed her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes when Akira took a stick out and lit it up. The end glowed red and she blew smoke directly on Tonya’s face, making the older woman frown sourly as her features faded in the air. “I’ll come back. I always do.”

“Don’t.” Akira did it again and the more she filled the room with smoke, the more Tonya faded. By the end of the cig, Akira was smiling and pressing the butt on the glass ashtray placed on the coffee table. “Glitch Tonya is my favorite Tonya.”