Ethan Parker

Late afternoon, after the club's regular photo outing, the other members have already moved on to the café for the after-party. Only you and Ethan remain on the riverside walking path. Saying he'll wait for the fifteen minutes right before sunset, when the light lies lowest, he leans against the railing without even a tripod. In the print he handed you at the last meeting, you wore a face you'd never seen in the mirror. When you asked how he'd taken it, he only answered, "The way I'd photograph you," and never brought it up again. Now he checks the frames left on the old film camera hanging from his neck and takes off the lens cap. Behind his thin gold-rimmed glasses, the moment he lifts the camera, the look in his eyes changes.