Photograph Love

I love him in the way that he is abstract. I love him in the way that he is a mystery, that he is a two dimensional face, that he is a soft voice at midnight. I love him in the way that his frozen smile makes my heart twitch. He makes my chest feel like an empty cavity—empty save for the longing, the exquisite hurt of having him, and yet not. 1

I met him by chance. I got to know him through words, after long days and longer nights. I learned his style first. I learned his humor. And then I learned his name. 2

His name is etched in my notebooks, in my sketching pad, on my shoes, on my heart. His pictures are all over my walls. This one he took for me at the park. He sits on a bench with a coffee in one hand, camera in the other—and a second coffee beside him. “That one is waiting for you,” he said. I love coffee.3

“I want to show you my city,” he told me. “I want you to know where I am.” He took pictures of his favorite café, his favorite reading chair in the library. Of his mailbox. He took a picture of his sleeping roommate. He took pictures of streets and street signs, of his ratty skateboard, of the trees in autumn colors, of snowy angels, of charcoal writings on the bridge wall that read “I miss you”. He sent me collages. He sent me a scrapbook. “I’ll take the pictures,” he said. “You can write our story.” 4

He was the romantic one, the one who made wearing your heart on your sleeve look like art. I was the supporting actress. And not one to be outdone, I began taking photographs. I took pictures of the sidewalk, the inside of my car. I took pictures of the reflections on the glass windows of my office building. I took pictures of the view outside of all my apartment windows, of my room, of my bookshelf, my desk.5

Time had never passed so quickly, and even with traces of him surrounding me, I had never felt so lonely. Two years: nineteen months worth of his personal pictures, seventeen months worth of mine, and only a total of five months of pictures that had the both of us together. Our together pictures were full of amusement parks and hand holding. They were evidence of twenty perfect weeks. I wonder how I ever survived the other seventy six. 6

There was the Together Picture where I stood behind him, a hand in his dark hair and a pair of scissors in the other. “Pretend to be Edward Scissor Hands,” he had told me. Of course I wouldn’t turn down the offer. He never suggested that game again.7

Our times together were precious, but it was the long spaces in between that made me wonder if it was really meant to be. It was those moments of insecurity, those times when my treacherous mind wondered if his female friends were really just friends. Those moments where I doubted I could last. 8

But I did. I waited. I had no choice. I had learned him, and I loved him. All I had to do was remember—the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way his fingertips felt feather light on my skin. I would remember the way we would lie in bed, wide awake and bodies pressed together. “I just want to feel you next to me,” he said. 9

We liked to write letters, smudged and bordered in small drawings, quotes, lyrics. I looked forward to seeing his scrawled penmanship. And then one day I received something out of the ordinary. It was not just an envelope—it was a box. 10

I opened the box, only to find another hidden inside, this one with a note taped onto it. 11

“My Eurydice:12

Do not open this until I say.13

All my love, 14

Orpheus”15

I smiled and rolled my eyes at the names. I knew he was an eccentric, and I loved him for it, though this was particularly odd. I took a picture of it, only the outside box open, the rest in tact, and then stuffed the box into my closet. I promptly forgot about it. I couldn’t afford to ponder, to wonder, to be tempted to peek. I knew that my peeking would ruin this game he was trying to play.16

The following days were normal: work, pictures, writing, work, and bits of my “Orpheus” in between it all. Not once did he mention the box, nor did I ask about it. He would let me in on the joke when he was ready.17

I got a call one evening while washing my coffee cup. I answered in my customary way: a greeting word accompanied by a term of endearment was my usual formula. I believe that day it was,18

“Hey, babycakes.”19

“Open the box and call me back,” he said, and then he hung up.20

With a smile, I went to the closet and gladly tore into the box. But the damned things were like Russian dolls. After six layers of cardboard boxes and a sense of sadness for the poor tree they came from, the prize was revealed. First I noticed all of the pictures of him packing. The picture of a note saying he was able to get transferred. And underneath it all, a small simple band of silver. 21

Past conversations flooded my memory, of all the times I suggested he move in with me. “What if I just showed up out of nowhere,” he asked once. “Then I’d help you bring in your things,” I said. 22

And a couple of hours later, I did. 23