Seriously: Melissa Madison

Somewhat oddly I found myself with strangers on a lower broadway photoshoot a week ago. As a Nashvillian who typically avoids downtown as if it were a crusty dried dishrag that might contaminate me with its stench, I was rather dazzled. It was one of those rare spring days where the ambient temperature is that of a Fhlostonian paradise. The sun had drifted low enough that we had entered urban twilight. Flesh and blood humans were engaged in various levels of ridiculousness all around. It was a feast. I found myself feeling fondly for the country boys come into town to pedal themselves about, the folks on party barges who dance in the air as if their world is no bigger than the audible radius of the bus speaker. The amount of cowboy hats, and cowhide print, and fringe were such that I cracked a smile for my fellow man. And then the sound of scooters drew my eye. Here came this woman all in black, zooming up 1st avenue from the distance. I went low, and the wind blew her hair back and she smiled at me like she was thinking of the same soppy joke I was. It was a perfect moment for strangers.