by Robert Clay
When the limo pulled up the paparazzi descended on it like locusts. Cameras were already flashing through the car windows as I looked at the girl. She looked nervous, frightened even, well, I was paid to protect her body, not her mind, assuming that is, she had a mind. I took out the bottle of baby oil and began to smear it on my thumbs, then I took her hands to do the same as she looked at me with questioning eyes. "They'll push the cameras into your face, hold up your hand as if to cover your face and gently settle it on the lens, then smear it with your thumb, it won't stop the photographs, but it will piss off the paps, always a good thing, and perhaps next time they'll stand back." She smiled, a smile that made little dimples on her cheeks, a glimpse of incredible beauty that made me catch my breath just for a moment, just for a moment, but I've put a lot of steel around my heart over the years, so I opened the door.
Robert Clay, whose full catalog is here, is a Seafarer now stranded on land. He lives in Cornwall in the UK.