I took a bracing, I-am-totally-confident-and-I-do-this-all-the-time-and-it-is-no-big-deal-and-I-am-not-acting-like-a-weirdo breath. “Yes, I have a question. I’m a writer and I need to speak to the owner of that cute little VW convertible out in the parking lot.”
One of the women stopped, scissors open above a clump of hair held up by a comb. She glanced down at my camera, then up at me. “That’s my car.”
I trotted over to her. “I’m a writer and I’ve just written a scene which takes place in your car, well, not your car, but a car just like yours, and I realized I wasn’t sure about the interior of the car. Would you mind if I get a few pictures of it?”
I’d have chickened out and bought a Volkswagen sales brochure on eBay. Then again, I’m not a writer.