“I know where you live,” he said. “Over yonder where the houses are.”

“Oh, prickly pears. Why would I even say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re someone who says things like ‘oh, prickly pears’?”

Laughter floated over the line. “We’re not allowed to say the Lord’s name in vain in our house, so I had to get creative. ‘Gosh’ got old after a while.”

“Say no more. A lot of my Korean-American friends come from devout Christian families.”

“I don’t know about devout. My parents stopped going to church years ago because they got so much crap about promoting Satan’s way with the brewery. But they still have their faith.”

“Isn’t judging others just about the most un-Christian thing they could do? Your parents didn’t deserve that.”

“Right? It’s quite messed up,” she said with quiet indignation. “Anyways, I think we were just setting up a date. Didn’t you need something from me?”

“Yes, your address please.” He grabbed a pen from his messenger bag and scribbled down the address on the back of a receipt.

“Okay, then,” she said before he could find something interesting to say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” he said quietly, reluctant to let her go.

If he didn’t want to spend all day staring at the clock, willing the hands to move faster, he’d better keep himself busy. He pushed himself off the chair and scanned the dining hall with his hands clasped behind his head.

The afternoon light filled the restaurant, giving it a sleepy, dreamlike ambiance—like sunlight streaming through the window of a neglected attic room. What was clutter and mess suddenly became something magical and surreal. It made a familiar tingling run down his arms to his fingertips. Taking photographs just for the sake of capturing beauty gave him an instant high. He might even be able to use some of the shots for the website.

He rushed to grab his equipment from his car, hoping he’d brought the right lenses. Rummaging through his bag and case, he found one that would probably work. With a camera bag on one shoulder and a tripod on the other, Seth rushed back inside. Thankfully, everyone was gone for the day, and he was able to concentrate on his inspiration.

The light transformed the wood dust floating in the air into tiny birds coasting the sky, their movements sinuous and graceful. He wanted to take pictures of his birds until the sun dipped out of sight. But he grudgingly moved on to the other parts of the interior because he only had about ten more minutes with the light. Then he became captivated by what he saw in the nooks and crannies of the unfinished French-country interior—the brass rooster pan left lying on the mantel, waiting to be hung, and the crystals peeping out from under the covered chandeliers, creating psychedelic rainbows against the wall. There was beauty everywhere.

When the ethereal overlay dissipated with the light, Seth felt a familiar weight press against his chest. This was just the beginning, or at least it used to be. In his past life, the photographs he took would be transformed with another layer of enchantment—his paint work. In his mind, he saw a secret beauty in the world that he could only communicate through his art. It allowed him to make real what he saw through his soul. But that time was long gone.