3. Light

Carson shivered. It was freezing up here. He sure hoped this was worth it.

The only time being a photographer really sucked was winter. Especially evening in winter, and especially evening in winter eighty-six floors up.

It wasn't as if he'd never taken pictures from here before. He'd done so millions of times, in fact. That was the advantage of living only half an hour or so outside of New York City: it didn't have to be a big ordeal to visit the Empire State Building. Sure, that took some of the special out of it, but it did provide him with a great vantage point for photography.

There were, of course, disadvantages. It was impossible to find the observation decks empty, for instance; everyone else knew how impressive the view from here was, so he always had to share it with other photographers, both professionals like himself, and tourists with their cheap little point-and-shoots. Carson could tolerate it, though. He was patient. He knew how to wait. That didn't mean he liked to, but at least he could. He'd gotten marginally lucky this time— it seemed there were only a few other people stupid enough to hang around up here on a cold November evening, but 'a few' wasn't quite as diminutive as it sounded.

So, if it was chilly, crowded, and not exactly special, why was he here? There wasn't really a draw to it. He already had an entire folder in his computer's photography file devoted to the shots he'd taken from here, and he could just come back on a better day if he felt inclined to take a few more; there was literally no reason for him to be here right now. He didn't care about that, though. It was rare for Carson to pay much attention to logical reasoning. He'd just make up his own excuses, and those were always good enough for him.

Even with all its drawbacks, this was an amazing place to be. The view was just so serene from up here, and he never really tired of looking through the pictures he'd taken from this point, no matter how many of them there were. To Carson, it still was pretty extraordinary, even with how frequently he visited. This was probably simply because he was easily impressed, but that didn't have to matter.

He shuddered again as the wind suddenly picked up, letting his camera hang by its neck strap as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. He tried to bury his face in his coat as the wind blew his messy blond hair out of his face, exposing more skin to the icy air. Even with how desperately he was trying to warm up, he still felt frozen. There were few things Carson hated, but being cold was definitely on the list.

Perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea after all. He should've gotten here earlier. If he stood here shivering much longer there wouldn't be enough light left for any quality pictures. Carson still hadn't mastered nighttime photography. If he hadn't waited until almost 4 o' clock to head out to the city, this wouldn't have been an issue. He knew full well how long it took to get to the observation deck; he should have the sense to plan for his trips out here by now, but, of course, he didn't. Carson tended not to learn from his mistakes. He'd probably end up waiting even longer next time he felt the sudden urge to take pictures from 1,050 feet.

It took him too long to warm up and make his way to the border of the deck. With the way the sky had clouded over, the light wasn't quite sufficient for photography anymore. Carson sighed and shuffled his feet, pulling his arms close to his body in another attempt to salvage more body heat. What a waste this had turned out to be. He took a few shots anyway, targeting nothing in particular. There was no way he was leaving empty handed, even if what he did take wasn't anything spectacular. Perhaps he'd get lucky. It was doubtful, but there was still that small possibility that his patience would pay off.

A new group of tourists had entered the balcony, and Carson didn't hesitate to let them to the edges so he could go inside and warm up. He hung around near the entrance anyway, keeping a close watch on the sky, waiting for the clouds to clear out. He wasn't giving up just yet. If he waited for it to lighten up again—even just a little—he could come away from this with a few good pictures, and as long as that chance was still there, Carson would stick around. That was how stupidly optimistic he was.

Even with his high level of patience, though, boredom was not out of the question. It was quite probable, actually. He couldn't help but to tire of simply staring at the sky; there wasn't anything to see, and it was boring him quite quickly. Even his normally tireless optimism was beginning to wear out at this point. He couldn't stay here much longer; he didn't have the attention span. He just wasn't determined enough to keep interest. If it didn't lighten up soon, he'd have to go home.

Just a few more minutes. Five. Five more minutes and I'm leaving. Ten, actually. Ten sounds good. If the clouds aren't gone in ten minutes, it's time to head home.

His limit set, he journeyed back outside, heading for the border right away. He tried to mind the tourists—really, he did, he understood that they couldn't come here every day like he could—but he had a time limit to work with, and a short one at that. They just had to give him a few minutes, then he'd be out of their hair.

C'mon, clouds; I've been patient. Work with me, here. It was stupid to think at his subjects; he knew this, but he couldn't help it. It was a habit he'd developed ages ago. It even seemed to work sometimes; he could only hope it did now.

It did after awhile, but not by much. The clouds rearranged, letting only a few rays of light through to illuminate the city. It wasn't much of an improvement, but it was enough; the light was finally right for photography. He grinned unconsciously as he set off, snapping as many pictures as he could. Who knew how long what little light he had would last?

He was rushing. It's never good to rush, and he was all too aware of this, but he didn't slow down. He couldn't; the prospect of a few good photographs pushed him into overdrive. He kept shooting, making his way all around the border of the observation deck to get every angle he could. He'd regret this when he looked through the day's photos at home and found a bunch of blurry shots of unrecognizable buildings, but he wasn't thinking about later at the moment; all that mattered—the only thing he could think about—was taking pictures. He had to pause every now and again to adjust the levels; turn up the ISO, change the aperture, zoom out a little. These momentary lapses in attention were barely noticeable; he adjusted what needed to be adjusted in seconds and was off to his next vantage point in no time. He knew his camera so well that he barely had to look down to change the levels; he had to if he wanted to be at all professional.

There was nothing he liked better than this. Being so caught up in his photography that he didn't notice anything but his subject and his camera. The feeling was amazing; knowing that there was something he could enjoy this much—and that it's something he was actually good at!—was simply unbeatable.  There's nothing better than it in the world to him.

He was in the photography 'zone', and there was nothing that could snap him out of it. He'd keep meandering through the crowd, adjusting the camera levels, and taking pictures until the light ran out. He'd done it before; he knew how addicting it was. What kept him going, though? What kept this so special if it had happened so many times? He didn't know; he didn't care. As long as he was still holding a camera, it didn't matter.

This was what he did, this was what he loved to do, and this was what he was going to do for the rest of his life. He couldn't have found a better addiction.