i find her in a box of photographs that lies open on some stranger's table. she stands far in the background, turned away from the camera. the setting sun illuminates the profile i know so well.
in the foreground, an attractive couple stand with arms outstretched toward the camera. their fingers forever rest upon the button that will open, then close the shutter. i recognize them as the hosts, friends of friends of friends. they have welcomed me into their home though i do not entirely understand the cascade of relationships that connects me to them.
i hold the picture closer. they are underexposed. the automatic shutter setting has mistaken the sun as the subject of the shot. and beyond them the whirl of those wild strands of her hair dance on the evening's last light.
she's shifted her weight shifted to her right foot, as if she has turned away suddenly. as if we have just missed seeing one another.
i recognize this posture, the simple line of her neck as it slopes down toward her shoulder. she hides smiling lips against her hands, as if she holds some great secret there. as if, by knowing yet not acknowledging the camera which beholds her, this moment suspended in silver halide will forever be only for me.
this is, of course, untrue. it is a stranger's photograph found in a stranger's house. i do not know anyone in it.
