Over the weekend, I found some old negatives in an envelope stuffed in the top drawer of my bedside table. When I pulled the negatives out and held them up to the small lamp next to my bed to get a better look at them, I realized they were from photos that were taken back in 1999. One of them showed a tiny image of what was—and still is—probably my very favorite picture of David and me. As soon as I saw it, I knew that I had to get the negative reprinted.
The original picture is long gone, but I remember that time of my life well. David was in a court-mandated inpatient rehab in the summer of 1999; twice a week, in the evenings, he attended counseling meetings at an offsite hospital in Chester. For some reason, the bus that transported the men to and from the hospital where the meetings were held back to the rehab facility always came late, which gave the guys a free hour or so. I was working at my first nine-to-five, grown-up job then, and after work those two nights a week, I would race from my office in Malvern down to Chester to spend as much time with him as possible.
Sometimes David and I would sit on the wall on the sidewalk in front of the hospital, joking around with the other guys, listening to my car radio, smoking cigarettes, kissing, hugging, just enjoying the time we had together.
But one night we decided that we needed some privacy. I wasn’t terribly familiar with the area, so I drove us around aimlessly, his hand creeping up my thigh, until we found a nearby industrial park that backed up to a densely-wooded lot. That first time, I parked my car next to a Dumpster behind the empty warehouses. We began kissing and touching each other, at first tentatively, then building into a crescendo of passion that ended with David reclined in my passenger seat, belt unbuckled, jeans unbuttoned, my skirt around my waist as I straddled him, riding him hard and fast as his hands gripped my ass and lifted me up and down. He had just exploded inside of me when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man exiting one of the buildings just across the parking lot from us. I flattened myself on top of David and squeezed my eyes shut, murmuring a silent prayer. Did the man see us? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t comfortable taking any chances, especially since David was definitely not supposed to be off the hospital’s property at any time. As soon as the coast was clear, I rolled back over into the driver’s seat and we took off.
Despite the risks involved in our little excursions, we weren’t about to refuse the rare opportunities we created to have each other, even if it were only for a little while. The following week, we returned to the industrial park and left my car behind the Dumpster, deciding to explore the woods behind the warehouse. We swatted our way through the overgrowth, laughing aloud at ourselves and our craziness, until we came upon a wide field in a clearing. We exchanged looks. How perfect. Before I knew it, David gathered me into his arms and began kissing me, and I yielded to him completely. We sank into the tall grass, undressing each other as we descended, and made desperate, sweaty love as the sun set behind the trees.
The photo that I had reprinted today from the negatives I found was from one of those evenings. His friend Jim had taken a picture of us standing just outside the hospital. It must have been a very hot night; my hair is gathered up in a messy bun, and my bangs are unruly and tightly curled, framing my forehead. I am wearing a snug, red, three-quarter length sleeved shirt with a deeply plunging V-neckline—I loved that shirt—and, although it can’t be seen in the picture, a long black A-line skirt with black pantyhose and black heels. The silver chain with the “L” pendant that David had given me for Christmas the previous year hangs around my neck, dangling just above my cleavage. My back presses into David’s chest, his arms wrapped around my waist and clasped at my navel, my arms resting on top of his. He is wearing a plain white t-shirt, black belt, faded blue jeans, and a white baseball cap perched backwards on his head. I am grinning broadly, radiantly at the camera; my expression is pure, unadulterated happiness. David, who never liked to show his teeth while smiling for pictures, is wearing his usual half-cocked smirk, the right corner of his mouth curling up. God, we were young and gorgeous and in love. So in love. Just observing the joyful look on my face in that picture is enough to make me smile right now.
The one thing I really didn’t count on was the strong reaction this picture caused me. I picked up the reprint today at the drugstore and fairly ran out to the privacy of my SUV to inspect it after all these years. I stared at the picture for about five minutes and then burst into tears. And then spent the next thirty minutes weeping intermittently.
What shocks me is how healthy and beautiful David looks in the photo. The love I have for him guarantees that he is always handsome in my eyes, yet his image in this picture is in stark contrast to how he has appeared to me in the past few months I’ve seen him, and it’s not just from the normal effects of aging. It’s from hard living, from the drugs, from the years of abuse he has imposed on himself…and I hadn’t realized it until today.
