Revue by K.M. Golland

seat.
    “Thanks,” I said, placing my arse down and glancing in Josh’s direction, a look of annoyance and quite possibly rejection on his face. Yeah, how does that feel, arsehole? It’s probably something you’ve never experienced in your life.
    “So, how’d you go last night?” Matt asked, shuffling in his seat.
    “Yeah, good. I think I captured a nice variety of angles and perspectives. There’s got to be something among these that Women can use. Here.” I passed him my camera. “Just flick through. Tell me what you think.”
    He started scanning the contents. “These are great.”
    “Thanks. I want to try something different every show. Sometimes it’s just a matter of varied points of view.”
    “What do you mean? Like taking pictures from different areas of the room?”
    “Yeah, and different camera angles. Here, let me show you,” I said, taking my camera from him and positioning it in front of us, lens facing in our direction. “Say cheese!”
    We both smiled as I took the pic. “Now don’t move, at all . Keep looking and smiling directly ahead.”
    I changed the position of the camera, held it above my head, and took another, followed by moving it down below and taking one last pic.
    Bringing the camera in front of us again, I displayed the pictures on the screen. “See all of these? The objects—that’s us—didn’t move or change, and neither did my position when taking the shots. Yet every pic is different. And that’s because the camera angle varied quite considerably.”
    He nodded in agreement. “Ahh … I get ya.”
    “You’d be amazed at the style of photo you can achieve from an unusual camera angle.” I handed him back the camera. “I’ll need to speak to Lenny about it, but I’d like to try and rig my Nikon to the roof at one of the shows and take some aerial shots via my wireless transmitter.”
    He turned to face me, eyes wide, forehead wrinkled with surprise. “Really?”
    “Yeah, of course. I’m not one to take the same old p—”
    “You two taking selfies? Aren’t you a bit old for that, Chief?” Josh asked, interrupting us.
    Matt didn’t batt an eyelash. “Rough night, Bugs?”
    “Nah, it was good actually. Real good. The bitch’s mouth was as big—”
    “Josh, for fuck’s sake, grow some fucking tact,” Matt barked.
    I turned to Matt. “I’m going to go and chat to Baz. Have a look through the pics and let me know what you think, okay?”
    “Sorry, Corinne. Yeah, I will.”
    Standing up, I met Josh face to face, ours noses practically touching. “Excuse me,” I said resolutely.
    Frustration, anger, and something else I’m not quite sure of, seared me through his eyes. But I didn’t budge. If anything, I nudged him backward—a warning to bloody move.
    His nostrils flared and his gaze dropped to my lips. The suggestive and subtle motion had me snarling, which was when he moved aside. I stepped past him and let out the breath I was holding. I can’t possibly do this for another twelve weeks.
     
    ***
     
    Just under two hours later, we pulled up at The Dog on the Tuckerbox, only a few kilometres outside of Gundagai. I was so excited that I practically bounced off of the bus. When I was a kid, my family had stopped here on our way to a family holiday in Queensland. I must’ve been six years old or younger, because my memory was a little foggy. What I do remember, though, was standing on the edge of the fountain that surrounded the statue, balancing against Tom while Dad took a photo. It was a great pic—one of my favourites. I also think it was moments such as those that inspired my brother and I to form a love for photography.
    Walking up to the fountain, feeling nostalgic, I snapped a couple of shots of the bronze dog, which sat upon a stone tuckerbox. Much of the story about the infamous Aussie dog evaded me, but what I did know was that the statue was testament to a bullocky’s dog and how it would guard it’s owner’s tuckerbox until