A. J. O'Donovan UK Trailhead Voirey Linger US Trailhead by C.A. Masterson A literary short published by Quality Women's Fiction (2005) I met Steve before he was Stephen, when he was still a waiter trying to "break into" photography. As if he were a thief, as if it were something he could acquire by timing and chance. We sat at the bar, him drinking lager and me sipping my Blue Angel (I was a bit like him that way - I liked the labels on a thing, the poetry of it, though sometimes maybe not the thing itself). Through the smoky haze, I watched Steve's expression intensify as he spoke of his great need to create art. His passion was irresistible. "What kind of camera do you use?" I asked. "A secondhand Nikon. Damn thing jams on me - I hate it." "Seems to me, if you want to take better pictures, you need a better camera." The glimmer of a smile played on his lips. "Exactly. But I can't afford to buy state-of-the-art." "So buy a better used one." I leaned back in my chair. I wore a black sundress, a short one that showed off my legs. I wanted him to get a good look. He did. As if I had gravitational pull, he leaned toward me. "You know, not many people think like you. Except maybe me." "Imagine that." I flipped my long brown hair behind my bare shoulder, and he traced circles on my skin with his index finger. He told me he'd taken a few great photos, asked me if I wanted to see them. Of course, they were at his apartment. Of course, I said yes. And of course, I barely got to see even the first before we were wrestling on the rug. That weekend, I went with him to the camera shop. He fell in love with a medium-format Hasselblad, but didn't have enough money. I offered to loan him the rest. He didn't argue much. The three of us - me, Steve, and the Hasselblad - went on a long walk through Thornwald Park, following narrow footpaths lined with tall oaks, feathery ferns. Steve took some shots, and I thought they had to be wonderful, just like the scenery. But later, when he developed them, only two were really worthwhile - the first captured the shafts of sunlight streaming through an oak's branches, spilling across the path, beckoning the viewer on. The other was a close-up of a wildflower, so wild I had no idea what it was, and it was so beautiful it didn't matter what it was called. I wanted them hanging above my bed, where we could roll, pretending we were wild, too. The owner of Anthony's, the restaurant where Steve worked, agreed to let him hang his photos in the entrance way, where one day, as I was certain would happen, an art gallery manager saw them. He told Steve he'd like to see more. Steve told him sure, great. He didn't tell them there weren't any more. He thought he could shoot enough to fill the gallery's walls. Simple as that. But it wasn't. Steve - excuse me, he was Stephen, at this point, as he constantly reminded me - said he felt like his creative juices had been squeezed dry. His photos were awful - out of focus, underexposed or overexposed, poorly composed. Stephen blamed the Hasselblad, fell just short of blaming me for enabling him to buy it. "I wasn't ready for it. You have to work up to that level." I disagreed, but silently. I hated to watch him torture himself like this. Redoubling my support, I trekked with him to mountaintop and river, at sunrise and sunset, searching for that elusive masterpiece. His mood swung back around; excitedly, he'd frame a shot, tell me this one might be another great one. He was getting closer, he told me, he could feel it. He invited me into his inner lair - the room forbidden to all but him. The darkroom. He led me there with no mental preparation. Never having experienced total darkness before, I was taken aback by its almost palpable presence. Stephen's voice seemed a disembodied entity speaking to me. "It'll just take me a minute to load this film." I said nothing. Fear constricted my throat. I told myself to stop being childish. The more I tried to contain my fear, the wilder it grew, as if the darkness were a jungle whose vines wrapped about my legs, my arms, my throat. "Steve..." "What?" His tone was impatient, irritated. I regretted my faux pas - he'd repeatedly asked me to call him Stephen; no one took an artist named Steve seriously, he'd said. He'd even toyed with the notion of changing it to Stefan, to imply a more culturally diverse upbringing. "I can't breathe. I'm getting dizzy." "Put your head between your knees." "I need to get out of here." "I can't open the door now. It will ruin my film, my developing paper." This, as if I were insane. I bent forward, unaware of how close he stood. Something clattered to the floor, and I knew I'd knocked the canister from his hands. "Fuck! What'd you do that for? I'll never find it. You're going to have to help me." Embarrassed, I squatted, felt the floor, my head swirling. I had no bearings in this room, no bearings with Stephen. My fingers found the twisted strip of film, and I grabbed hold. "Here it is." "Remember, don't touch the film." A chill ran through me. "How am I supposed to pick it up then?" "Hold it by the edges!" The more I tried not to touch it, the more I felt my fingertips smear across the surface. "Here," I said, and shoved it in the direction of his voice. "Man, I can't believe this! I finally shoot a roll that I think is really great, then this." I was grateful for the invisibility afforded by the darkness. Then I ruin it. An apology began to form in my head, but it dissipated when he said again, "Fuck." I heard the plastic container clack, and he urgently whispered, "Come on, baby." He'd used the same phrase on me last night, but even then, it had sounded selfish, as if he were interested more in the outcome for himself. He flipped on the safe light, and the room was awash in a soft red velvet. Intent on pouring a chemical mixture into the canister, he moved about efficiently - timed himself as he swished the fluids around the canister for the allotted time, rinsed, added another liquid, repeated the process. He removed the film, hung it to dry, frowning as he inspected each frame. After a few minutes - during which time I tortured myself with guilt of probably having ruined his chances at fame - he loaded the developed film onto the enlarger. As he focused the lens, I held my breath. He tsk'd in disappointment. It was as I had feared. My fingerprints had ruined it. It was the photo he'd set the timer for, then hurried back by my side to lean his head on mine. Waiting for the shutter to click, I'd felt the tension in his arm, his neck strained, but imagined the smile I knew he'd affected for the shot. And there it was before us now, in black and white - the image of his face was perfect, head tilted toward me just so, smile loving but not overdone. Anyone viewing it would believe us a happy couple. Except my face was blurred by my own thumb-smudge. I could have been any girl with light brown, medium-length hair. His narrowed eyes spoke of his annoyance. "Guess that one's a waste." He slid to the next frame, a shot of me walking away. "At least that's not my fault." I shouldn't have said it, it sounded even to me like an accusation, a judgment of his inartistic ability. "Don't be a bitch. That's how I wanted it." I looked at it again. My image was blurred, the trees in the background in perfect focus. As if he anticipated my leaving, looked forward to it, even. I thought back to that day: he'd been coaching me, calling instructions as he composed the shot. At the time, I'd been happy to be his model, his muse; I fancied myself his partner. But looking at the finished photo, I saw that I was almost inconsequential in the scheme of things. I looked at him, and received the briefest of blank stares in return. As if I were still blurred. Inconsequential. He cared little for the dimension not apparent on the developing paper. Anything beyond two dimensions would be a liability for him now. I turned back to the photo, and saw the trees ahead as I'd seen them that day - trunks stretching into leafy branches scraping the sky, a path ahead opening up, leading away. Whatever Stephen might be saying, I couldn't hear him any longer.