“Iamcool.” He touches his hat, peeking over at me. “Right?”
I laugh. “Socool.”
“Now we get to photograph?”
“NowIget to photograph. You get to trail me like a loyal puppy.”
He grins. “We should have brought Bambi for that, but today I’ll happily take her place.”
We cruise the grounds, slowly, quietly. I stay slightly ahead and Mati, true to his word, follows like a shadow. The sun is white-bright, posing a challenge I don’t have to deal with in overcast Cypress Beach, but I get some workable shots: a shaded spiderweb spanning two headstones (still sparkling with dew), arrow-straight rows of alabaster marble markers as far as the eye can see (a few with small American flags waving serenely in front of them), and my favorite: Mati stooped down in front of a grave, touching its inscription with the tips of his fingers. His expression is a coil of pain and contemplation and admiration—God, everything I feel when I come here.
When I’ve drained my creative well and worn my feet tired, we sit cross-legged—side by side, but absolutely not touching—on a quiet stretch of path. We scan the raw photos on my camera’s digital display. Mati is full of compliments, even when it comes to the images of him, which, now that I’m looking, are numerous. His lack of inhibition is refreshing, considering Janie’s always been my only willing human subject.
“Would you mind if I tried?” he asks.
I set the Nikon to auto and show him the basics before passing it over. Immediately, he’s got the lens trained on me.
“No!” I say, throwing my hands over my face.
He lowers the camera. “But I thought Americans liked to have their picture taken?”
“No photographer ever likes to have her picture taken. That’s an established rule, Mati, like rain is wet and chocolate is divine. Surprised you didn’t know.”
“Maybe I don’t care.” Quickly, he raises the camera and snaps mypicture. It appears on the display and, after a quick assessment, he declares it, “Ssaaista.”
I frown. “Dare I ask what that means?”
He’s looking at my lips again, like they’re the most fascinating bit of anatomy he’s ever set his sights on. He shakes his head to clear whatever he was thinking (God,whatwas he thinking?) and hands my camera back.
“Ssaaistameans pretty, Elise.” He raises the corner of his mouth in a smirk. “Surprised you didn’t know.”
MATI
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” she asks.
She is driving us home, one hand loose on the wheel,
the other resting on the console between us.
Her attention is split between the road, and me.
“I believe inlove,” I tell her.
“Everyone believes in love.”
Not everyone.
My parents care for each other.
Their marriage is one of loyalty and acceptance.
But it is a match born of profit and political gain.
My marriage will be, too.
“Doyoubelieve in love at first sight?”
She glances at me,
