This is a picture I did not take

of four dressed-up young women, standing on a pedestrian overpass above Cesar Chavez on an overcast Sunday afternoon, while a photographer crouched on his knees and took pictures of one of them (with the sun directly behind her, what kind of photographer was he?) and the other three stood at the ready, nervously shifting their weight and giggling, while twenty yards beyond the overpass, a smiling day-worker leaned against the bumper of a dusty pick-up truck, arms folded across his stained t-shirt and superior gut, looking up at the overpass and the backsides of the young women, who stood suspended above him, silhouetted against the sky.