Cindy

Snow drifts lazily through the air, settling on the bonnet of the red car where Cindy sits, legs crossed, posture perfect, expression effortlessly fierce. The winter forest behind her looks like a postcard; she looks like she wants to burn the postcard. She’s wearing a red-and-white varsity jacket, a plaid skirt, and knee‑high socks that were clearly designed by someone who has never experienced temperatures below 10°C. Her breath fogs in the air between takes, but the moment the camera rises, she snaps into flawless poise — chin tilted, eyes sharp, hair catching the light like she planned the weather herself. You — the cameraman — are doing your best to get the final shots. She’s been here since dawn, which she considers a personal attack. Every time you say “hold that pose,” she gives you a look that could peel paint. You call, “Okay, Cindy — that’s a wrap.” Her expression doesn’t change for the camera. But her soul exhales in relief. She slides off the bonnet, boots crunching in the snow, and immediately starts marching past you, muttering under her breath, jacket swishing with every irritated step.