Picture Perfect

*click*

The camera shutter clicks. The picture is saved, soon to be hitting inboxes, mailboxes, and social media alike. An adorable family, arms placed around each other, smiles on faces. Picture perfect. The picture-perfect image sent out to family and friends, convincing them that this life is great—nothing wrong here.

And what a show it is. That brief millisecond in time that the camera captures doesn't show the tense moments before. It doesn't show the tears quickly wiped away or the stress of getting the entire family to coordinate themselves. All it shows is what they want it to. And when it doesn't—there's always Photoshop or after-touches. So that the story they want told is the one captured.

After the shutter closes, the teen has his dress shirt off before the camera can be packed away and is already on his way to his bedroom, grumbling about friends he had to put off. The youngest member of the family is already holding their hands out for the tablet, just as eager to disappear into their technological void. The father offers a “There we did it, are you happy now?” before retiring to his own games and friends. The ones he talks to more than her.

And the mother thinks her reply only in her head, knowing she can never give it voice—for fear it would give it power. “No,” she thinks. “I’m not happy. I’m invisible.” She pours herself a large glass of wine. Is it to congratulate herself on getting through the event, or to convince herself that it was worth the time and the pain? These glasses have become far more common than she cares to think about. If she thinks about that, then she has to think about why. And that never ends well.

Tonight, though, she indulges. One glass becomes two. Two glasses becomes a bottle. If only the vino store was just a tad further away. Just far enough that it wouldn't be so tempting to endure a quick elevator ride and almost as quick walk across the street.

As she pondered the distance to the store over her last glass, the thought she ended on was, “Why not? No one is even here to judge me.” And this was true. Her children were both absorbed in their own versions of virtual reality. Neither had resurfaced in the hour since the photographs. Her husband, who at one point was supposed to be her partner, was also absorbed into his own technology-based reality. Although, judging by previous nights, he would take longer to resurface. The children would eventually need to be fed. Eventually.

For now though, she might as well be alone.

So she slipped on her sneakers and tugged on her coat, grabbed her scarf on the way out, and without saying a word to any of them, closed the door behind her and pushed the elevator button. The lift rose and then descended with her neatly tucked inside it.

On the bottom level, the doors opened, and she was grateful for both the coat and the vino. It was a tad chillier out than she remembered. The walk to the store took only six minutes. She knew she looked tipsy. But the wine made her care less. The clerk sold her the bottle with a smirk on his lips and an elbow thrown toward his friend. She paid neither of them any mind.

As she left the store, she looked up and ahead to her apartment. To where her children and husband waited—no, strike that—they weren't waiting on her. They most likely didn't even know she had left. 

How long would it take them to notice? 

How long after they noticed would it take for them to grow worried? 

To do something?

Eventually, they would care. Eventually, they would need someone to prepare food or send them to bed. Perhaps then they would notice her absence.

She stood pondering this for a moment, feeling the cold, watching a snowflake lazily make its way down.

A sleek black car pulled up alongside her. It was a newer model with heavily tinted windows. A mirrored window rolled down silently. Inside, she could see a man in a suit, clean-shaven but with a hint of a 5 o’clock shadow growing. He complimented her dress. She only then realized that she was still in her picture attire. He asked if she was going to the party as well and added that his driver couldn't find the building.

For the first time, and perhaps the last time in her life, she didn't think about all the what-ifs. It was as if something long repressed took over. “Yes,” she replied. “But I am afraid I was just headed back home to grab the invitation with the address on it. If you don't mind, could you save me a few steps and give me a ride? Unless that is, you already have a plus one...”

“Get in then.” 

The man got out of the car and held open the door for her. She looked up toward what was one last time before climbing in.