“Looks like you got me.”
Theo did a good job taking my portrait and satisfying me last night, no doubt. For some reason, though, today he seemed to have made it his life’s goal to follow me everywhere. He took pictures of me at the opening, during the setup of the exhibition this morning, and even at lunch with the team.Why would someone as talented as Theo waste his gifts on such a menial gig?
“Sorry, I just couldn’t resist such a poetic opportunity,” he said, nodding toward the window behind me.
“An old fart like me isn’t what anyone would call poetic.”
“Depends on who’s looking, I guess.” He turned the camera around and showed me the small screen on the back. The picture was good: rain against the window and me staring into it, as if I were thinking about where to take the next photo that people might call brave. It was the perfect reflection of the artist in me. It was fragile and sad in a way that I could’ve truly admired if I weren’t the subject of it—and if he wouldn’t behave as if we hadn’t done the dirtiest things together yesterday.
Theo’s eyes were fixed on me, waiting for the judgment of tonight’s star, as if my word was the law.
“Do you want me to delete it?” he asked, his finger hovering over the trash can button.
“If I did that, I could never look at myself in the mirror again,” I replied. All art deserved to exist, no matter whether I loved it or not. My eyes hovered on the image of myself on that small screen for a second longer before moving up and meeting Theo’s gaze. His shoulders hunched a little, and a strand of hair on his forehead reached hard for his eyes. “Well, keep up the good work.”
“I will.” He nodded as if he took my words as an order, his fingers tightening their grip on his camera. He leaned in a little closer, bringing his mouth too dangerously close to my ear. “Although I have to admit that nothing I shot today will ever beat what I saw yesterday.”
My dick twitched at the tingle of his breath on my ear. And then nothing. He didn’t make any move to take this further—just stepped behind me, leaned against the wall, and stared at his camera. I wished I could have asked him if he wanted to sneak away together and do it again, or if he wanted to comeover tonight once the official part was over. But I couldn’t get the words out.
Instead, my feet dragged me back down the hallway to the gallery. I put my hand on the metal door handle and, waiting for another click to reach my ear, peeked over my shoulder. As expected, the camera had found its way in front of Theo’s face, his left hand adjusting the lens, and his right finger already on the trigger. I smiled as much as possible, trying to give him the picture he should have taken all along: the boring, bad one I was expecting; the one for the newsletter. If he had taken it, it would have been easier to dislike him. But the click never came.
As the openinghad come to a close, I retreated toward the pub I owned downtown,Hops & Dreams—a medium-sized establishment with twenty tables all facing the brewing system behind the bar. Mimicking the centuries-old tradition of storing beer in oak barrels, the walls were lined with the same wood, giving the place a rustic feel. After the gallery, the smell of beer and the low thrum of rock music finally let me breathe freely again.
This place was as much a part of my life as photography. My great-grandfather built it up when he immigrated from Ireland almost a hundred years ago, and it has remained in family hands ever since. While I wasn’t as passionate about it as my ancestors were, it paid the bills and eased a lot of pressure when it came to making money with photography—enough that all the funds we raised from my famous picture could go directly to the farmer who lost his barn to the tornado.
About a third of the attendees from the gallery opening had joined me here, acting as if this were the official after-party,though it was anything but. It was simply a way for me to relax and slip away when I’d had enough without anyone noticing.
Together with half the Arts Council board, Theo had made his way over as well. He continued to shoot picture after picture, and no one else seemed to notice him, except me. His camera looked everywhere: at each person, at every detail and decoration in the room. Every now and then, the shutter clicked. When his face wasn’t hidden behind his camera, his eyes still searched for the next shot. The only thing he didn’t look at anymore was me. Maybe it was because I had confronted him earlier, or maybe because I wasn’t looking out a window at the rain right now, who knew. All I knew was that it stirred something in me that felt wrong—like Iwantedhim to point his lens at me again and find another one of those moments that were even hidden to myself. Yet nowIwas the one of us looking, and I didn’t have the same urge to take a picture of him, as it would have turned out like shit anyway.
“Excuse me.”
One of the bartenders pushed himself in front of me, gently reminding me that unless I was working at the bar, I shouldn’t be behind it, staring stupidly at a guest, even if I was the owner.
“Sorry.” I took a step back and watched my employee fill a glass with crushed ice. When I looked up a second later, my eyes went straight back to the corner Theo had been standing in, only to find him being replaced by the head of the council, a man twenty years my senior, wider than tall, with a laugh that warmed every room. I scanned the pub, looking at every corner and face, but I couldn’t find Theo anymore. My chest inflated, as if this were actually a problem, as if I were actually sad that he had not only lost interest in me but also left without saying goodbye.
How stupid. I hardly knew the guy.
Still, I felt a pang in my chest that made me want to be anywhere but here with all these people.
I nodded at the council members who raised their glasses at me, then stepped aside, making my way to the swinging door behind the bar that led toward the restrooms and the back exit. I pushed it open and stopped short in the doorway when I saw the very person who had made me step outside.
Theo slumped against the wall, his head hanging over his camera. His chest was caved in. His shoulders hung low. He stared at the screen, repeatedly tapping a button until he noticed me and straightened up.
“You don’t look happy,” I said as I let the door swing shut behind me, muffling most of the lively noise behind it. “No more good poetic shots tonight?”
“I’m okay. I got what I came here for, and a little more,” he replied. “I’m just tired.” The corners of his mouth turned up as if he were trying to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “Too many consecutive jobs. But I probably shouldn’t complain; it pays the bills.”
His answer was more real than I had anticipated. A teasing comment about the time we spent upstairs yesterday, or how out of place I looked all day, that’s what I expected. But at least his honesty made my chest unclench.
“You’re good. I can imagine that gigs like these can hardly be satisfying.”
“No, that’s not it. I love my job. But I also love to sleep, and I won’t get much tonight since I have a wedding tomorrow.”
“Sorry for keeping you up last night too,” I said.
“Oh.” His mouth finally formed a proper smile. “That counts as sleeping.”
We stared at each other for a moment, neither of us moving. I bet if I went for it now, he wouldn’t say no to coming upstairs with me, but the way he mentioned yet another job earlytomorrow, how tired he sounded, how fragile he looked, made me want to focus on the real person standing in front of me instead.
