It’s all an experiment, and she’s aglow in radioactive water. My mind is adrift. To the obvious, she’s naked in a hot tub, but I’m far off in some vacant immemorial future. I’ve latched myself to her gaze and within those dual pinholes of tiniest black, I see fingers of approval. Thumbs tapping, swiping upward. Animated red hearts. A tepidly engaged audience god knows where. I take a step back from the viewfinder.
“I feel like I might be photographing for other people,” I confess aloud.
“But, you’re really shooting for yourself,” Kitty says.
“Right.” I say pausing. “Well…I do.” I refocus and respond with a click of the shutter.
It’s Tuesday and below 30 degrees. A specific momentum has a playful way of pairing two strangers with an hourly-motel in Yonkers. We admit that we both had thought about canceling.
Kittty’s looking back at herself in the center mirror, shut-in by another pair of parallel reflections at canted angles. I imagine her quarantined in some oddly constructed carousel. But the truth is like the light, it bends helplessly. Maybe it was here that I thought mindfulness ought to be this year’s resolution. Let the future decide what the pictures mean if they mean anything at all, but photograph in the now and for yourself. Recursively, I unlatch her gaze behind mine and we respond with a click.