The Photo
David and I have been sitting at the bar at Applebee's for about a quarter of an hour. He's just given me the rest of the money he owed me for the concert ticket. I’m well into my first frozen daiquiri, and he is puffing away on a Newport, trying his best to keep any smoke out of my vicinity. He always acts as if I've just quit smoking hours ago, when in reality it's been over five years since my last cigarette. But still, I appreciate his thoughtfulness.
Then I remember what I've brought to show him. I grab my purse from the brass foot rail of the bar and pull it onto my lap. He looks at me questioningly. I root through the bag until my hand finds the slippery paper of the half-dozen or so old photographs I’d brought with me. I fish them out of my purse and present them to him.
Last night, I’d stayed up way past my normal weeknight bedtime, flipping through some old photo albums. I’d found several pictures of David and his family, and I thought he’d get a kick out of seeing them.
I’d also come across a photo of myself that David had taken, and I'd remembered that night so clearly it may as well have been just a week or two ago. We’d been getting ready to go out clubbing on a Saturday night with a bunch of his coworkers from the dialysis clinic. I can’t recall exactly what we were celebrating, but it was winter, and I was wearing black jeans and a tight, stretchy black shirt with a peek-a-boo cutout that exposed the deep gash of my cleavage. I’d just finished applying the last of my makeup in the mirror of his black lacquer bureau when he’d called my name from behind me. I turned around and he was standing right there, with a disposable Kodak camera pointed inches from my face. I’d always hated having my picture taken, but David loved taking it, so I'd given him a little half-smirk as he snapped the photo.
It turned out to be the only picture of myself that I actually ever liked. Certainly the quality isn't outstanding; David had been standing way too close to me when he took the photo, so the image is slightly blurred and the flash from the camera has turned my already-pale skin into an almost unearthly white. But the light plays so well off my dark hair, accentuating its natural auburn highlights and illuminating my hazel green eyes. My lips are pressed together in a self-conscious little smile, and the look in my eyes shows that the love I have for David clearly outweighs any annoyance I felt at the moment the picture was taken.
As we sit together at the bar, David begins flipping through the photos I’ve passed to him, chuckling at the old images of himself, until he arrives at the picture he took of me. His laughter dies out quickly. I watch his face as he examines the photo, trying to see his reaction to it.
“I remember that,” he whispers, more to himself than to me. Then he looks me pleadingly in the eyes. “Can I keep this?”
I give him a long look and then slowly nod. “Sure. Okay.”
He lowers his head and stares again at the photo of me staring back at him. “Wow,” he breathes.
Then I remember what I've brought to show him. I grab my purse from the brass foot rail of the bar and pull it onto my lap. He looks at me questioningly. I root through the bag until my hand finds the slippery paper of the half-dozen or so old photographs I’d brought with me. I fish them out of my purse and present them to him.
Last night, I’d stayed up way past my normal weeknight bedtime, flipping through some old photo albums. I’d found several pictures of David and his family, and I thought he’d get a kick out of seeing them.
I’d also come across a photo of myself that David had taken, and I'd remembered that night so clearly it may as well have been just a week or two ago. We’d been getting ready to go out clubbing on a Saturday night with a bunch of his coworkers from the dialysis clinic. I can’t recall exactly what we were celebrating, but it was winter, and I was wearing black jeans and a tight, stretchy black shirt with a peek-a-boo cutout that exposed the deep gash of my cleavage. I’d just finished applying the last of my makeup in the mirror of his black lacquer bureau when he’d called my name from behind me. I turned around and he was standing right there, with a disposable Kodak camera pointed inches from my face. I’d always hated having my picture taken, but David loved taking it, so I'd given him a little half-smirk as he snapped the photo.
It turned out to be the only picture of myself that I actually ever liked. Certainly the quality isn't outstanding; David had been standing way too close to me when he took the photo, so the image is slightly blurred and the flash from the camera has turned my already-pale skin into an almost unearthly white. But the light plays so well off my dark hair, accentuating its natural auburn highlights and illuminating my hazel green eyes. My lips are pressed together in a self-conscious little smile, and the look in my eyes shows that the love I have for David clearly outweighs any annoyance I felt at the moment the picture was taken.
As we sit together at the bar, David begins flipping through the photos I’ve passed to him, chuckling at the old images of himself, until he arrives at the picture he took of me. His laughter dies out quickly. I watch his face as he examines the photo, trying to see his reaction to it.
“I remember that,” he whispers, more to himself than to me. Then he looks me pleadingly in the eyes. “Can I keep this?”
I give him a long look and then slowly nod. “Sure. Okay.”
He lowers his head and stares again at the photo of me staring back at him. “Wow,” he breathes.
posted by Anonymous at 12/04/2006 10:25:00 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home