Tamara didn't want to have her picture taken.
She was a vision, dreadlocks piled high on her head, reclining on a shabby chic couch
in the middle of a courtyard whose peeling walls were covered in graffiti.
She couldn't see her glow as she repeatedly told her husband to stop snapping his iphone.
I wandered into the situation, an interloper.
Tamara relaxed when I confirmed her husband's instincts,
she was indeed picture worthy.
She acquiesced, "but I hate having my picture taken," she said, unable to contain her smile.