I think Mark hit the point this week where he has shown me one too many pictures of his kid. Or maybe I’ve sent him one too many pictures of my debauchery. It’s really easy to see on paper that are lives just don’t overlap. It’s getting confusing.
Last time he came around Chinatown, he walked through the single hall of Elle and mine’s home like he was exploring the moon. He looked at our heels that lined it. Inspected our sunglasses held in little trays above our coats that sprang like small trees from the brick wall. In the bathroom he ran his fingers along the suspended rows of nail polish. Over a hundred are stored. His index finger starts in the blacks section, then through a set of hombre greys, and across smokey silver hues to white. Another step left and I watch him cross the mirror. He pauses looking into the glass. The harsh LED light overhead is off; once he catches his gaze staring back, he takes one more step to the left to the IKEA flower lights that hang on the wall. The step forces him to straddle the toilet. The flowers are clear and the shadows flutter as he runs the wire through his hand.
"There is so much detail here. There is so much love."
"This home was made with a lot of love."
"I can tell.”
"It was a dream; it is a haven.”
"I wonder how long it will last.”
"How long will what last?”
"This. You two being happy. Breaking the mold. Having an unconventional home. Small. Sharing space and loving each other. I want to capture this, I’ll bring my equipment next time we meet.”
I’ve never been a fan of daily texting. Benign updates. My first thought: I’m glad you did your civil duties this week. You went to work, you exercised; you ate. Enjoy this slice of validation pie. But then again it isn’t like this is the tale as old as time. These are modern day problems we have recently invented. Copiers not working. Running out of coffee. Is our constant tremulous attitude about current situations, paired with complete disbelief in the system of our society proof that the burden it puts on the global human consciousness too much to bear?
Mark appreciates these talks though, so I am trying to give him love in a language that he understands. And sometimes that means I text him about his runs, and tell him I’m improving from yoga.
Mark shows up at my house early on Sunday morning. We kiss quickly, he makes a comical smack. I find it to be disingenuous and I wonder why he does this. Is it like he does to Pete? His ex wife or lover? His mother? Who is he relating to when he relates to me? He tells me he worries about me often. When I use the bathroom with the sink running, he checks in on me.
“I just needed to make sure you don’t have an eating disorder and weren’t throwing up or something. “
“Was that really the first thought that came to your mind?”
“You’re so small. You’re just so much smaller than me.”
“Don’t worry about me, but do close the door so I can use the bathroom.”
When I get out, I see he is already setting up the flash in my room, I mount the bed and put my back up against the wall.
“You know Angela, not all of your relationships need to be about sex.” He’s attaching and detaching wires, talking to me, maybe at me, but not looking at me.“You need someone to love you. Someone to care about you. I care about you. I want you to be well.” He looks up and tells me to stay where I’m sitting. That I look interesting.
“When I take your picture I want you to look vulnerable. Softer.”
Our eyes lock. His hands keep moving, fiddling with cables.
“I am soft.”
“I can feel you are soft, but I never see it on your face.”
A couple of flashes go off. He puts the little black box almost on my face. He gauges and adjusts the aperture accordingly.
“Yes, this looks great. But where will we put me?”
He stares through me objectively, taking in my shape. When he mounts the bed next to me, it is with calculation. He sits for a minute, then gets back up to press the button on the camera.
“They will be taken in sets of five.” And the flashes begin.
When they finish, we inspect the images together.
“These look okay. Try again.”
Five flashes.
“F**k, my dicks is in this one. I can’t have my dick in it. I can’t show it in gallery or class... It’s useless. I don’t know what to do for pants.”
I fish for a pair of mine in a drawer, they’ll suffice.
Five more.
“My arm needs to be behind yours.”
Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash.
“I think this is as good as we are going to get.”
I look at the pictures and it makes perfect sense.
From the camera: The camera is set up next to the window closest to the closet, but all of this is out of sight behind in the photograph. The sheets are a smokey grey, when Elle got them, she explained to me that when you dried them, you have to wait till they are mostly dry. Then, you take them out and fold and twist them like a rope. Then, you put them back in the dryer till they are finished. This gives them a uniformed, wrinkled appearance.
She told me, “It’s shabby chic. The texture is great.” And she’s right, it does looks great in the photos. A white stain from when he first arrived is marked in between our feet. I’m not sure if he notices it and I don’t point it out.
So here we are: Mark and Angela sit side by side on the bed, Angela to his left. We are both naked with our backs mostly against the wall. Our knees folded to our chests. No genitals to be seen. Our collarbones are pronounced, our gazes both a little sad. Mark is looking straight into the camera. Eyes wide. My gaze is lost behind the camera. Left eye as always, a little droopy. Both of our shadows look different against the wall. I’m farther away so mine is lighter. Less permanent. His is closer to the wall, darker. But we cast no shadows on each other. Our bodies are next to each other’s but we do not touch. We are in the same room looking at the same camera and we have nothing holding us to the other.
We both are in this picture, sharing the same bed, but we couldn’t be further apart. It is an anomaly of nature. How can we both exist in the same physical space when we are on different planets, in different universes? I cast no shadow on him, even though I am in front of him because I am a ghost. An interesting illusion. His eyes are wide because he is a voyeur, eagerly anticipating the next flash, and the even more so the following peak at the small photo, the two of us hunched over looking for something more than the back of his camera. Looking for art.
Yea, I’m sure he is enjoying this part. But I bet he can’t wait to look at it once he is alone with it in his home. He usually names his pictures by what song he is listening to when he edits them, I later find out that he dons this one “You Be Me”. But, I can’t find the song he is referencing on Youtube or Google. It might not exist, he might have made it up, or simply liked the words. I can’t help but wonder if I was ever really next to him in that photo, or if it was a dream. Him, staring at his computer screen, alone or not, listening to a song I’ve never heard and can’t find. Me, loving him in the dark nook of my home. We will never exist in the same universe. We will forever be spinning next to each other in space. Except for in this photo.
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