"Oh, no," said Wes.
"Oh, yes."
"Margot. I can see what you're about to do."
"You have no idea what I'm about to do."
"You're about to make somebody wear that in the booth."
"I'm about to make *you* wear that in the booth."
"I'm a creative director. I have a reputation."
"You have a reputation," she said, "for leaving parties early. This is an intervention."
And he laughed, really laughed, and she laughed, and before either of them had decided anything they were moving, fast, past Dottie's folding table, Dottie's reindeer bell jingling as she looked up, and into the booth, and Wes reached back and pulled the tan curtain shut along its brass rod with a scrape like a held breath.
Inside, it was close and warm and smelled of the cedar the cabinet was built from, and faintly of somebody's perfume. A narrow bench. The camera on its stand at face height, its lens a dark, patient eye. A single bulb overhead, and on a hook, a basket of props: a feather boa, a cardboard mustache on a stick, a pair of tinsel reindeer antlers on a headband, gold and green to match the curtain by the break room.
They sat. The bench was too small. Their knees touched. Margot became aware that she was holding the Santa hat against her chest like a hostage negotiator holding a bullhorn.
She put on her most serious face, the face she used on clients who wanted to cut the budget by thirty percent and keep the stadium spot.
"We are not taking a couple's photo," she said.
"Perfect," said Wes, and took the hat out of her hands. "I'm terrible at relationships and photography."
He put the Santa hat on his own head. It sat crooked, the pom-pom flopping over one ear. Then he reached into the basket, found the tinsel antlers, and slid them gently onto her head, his fingers barely touching her hair, adjusting them so they stood up straight, with the grave concentration of a man hanging a painting in a museum.
She was laughing before she knew it. He squeezed the cable release.
The flash was enormous in the little space, white and total, and for a moment she couldn't see anything but the bright ghost of it, and she could hear him laughing too, and the camera whirred and pushed out its first print.
Outside, someone started it. Later everyone would agree it had been Fergus, though Fergus would deny it with the passion of a man defending his life before a tribunal.