A Winter Bridge

It was after nine when I arrived.

He left the door open for me, but all the lights were off. A bag of the coffee I like was on the counter. The apartment used to be a boathouse, and it maintains its shape. Inside, there’s a living room with an open kitchen. That’s where the coffee waits. Two sliding doors separate the bedroom from the rest of the residence. I find the bathroom to be especially spacious considering how small the rest of the place is. Its shining gem is the window looking out on the bay.

When he’s here in the summer, we never cross paths. I have my shifts at the cafe and at night, I like to stay in. The sound of tourists crowding the sidewalks and making my hometown their playground unsettles me. Some locals love this time of year. They spend the off-season craving the activity that comes when our population triples overnight. When traffic downtown comes to a standstill and every man is suddenly wearing salmon shorts with white sweaters tied around their necks. I used to joke that every woman wears the same perfume from June to August. It’s possible to walk by anyone and smell linen or overhear a conversation about an upcoming wedding. I don’t hate the influx the way my parents used to. It just leaves me feeling stuck in a transition. Not coming or going, but waiting. Waiting for the light to turn red.

After Labor Day, he’ll send me a short message asking when I can come by. Usually he’ll be in Tokyo or Rio de Janeiro for weeks at a time, but he hates coming home to an empty place. I once made him promise that when he finally moved somewhere else, I would get his apartment. I pretended not to know that the landlord would raise the rent for the next tenant. The town was becoming more of a year-round destination, and it seemed like everybody wanted to live on an island now that the world was going mad. He told me that I could move in with him now if I wanted, but we weren’t even dating. We weren’t sure what we were. Just two people who liked sitting with each other and looking out a window.

And the photos.

Sitting on his bed would be a camera. I’d avoid it as though it knew I was there. As though I was playing hard to get. There was no logic in any of this. That didn’t change who I was. I loved routine. I ate the same breakfast everyday and the same dinner most nights of the week. It wasn’t compulsive, but it could have been if I didn’t pay attention. I showered and used the expensive bar soap he bought from specialty stores. I pictured my old skin falling away. Liquefying and spilling down into the drain. When I was done, I dried myself with the towel he set aside for me, and then put on a robe.

Only then did I touch the camera.

He left me a list on the desk next to the window. It had three items on it.

• You
• The Bridge
• Anything You Like

He always wanted something of me, and that was always the hardest photo to take. Tonight, I didn’t feel like making a meal out of it. I set the camera up on the couch with the timer ready. I sat down on the floor with the robe wrapped around me like it was a blanket. I didn’t smile, but I let the left part of my upper lip curl just a bit so I’d look bemused. I wouldn’t check to see if I was successful. Once the timer ran down, and the flash went off, I’d be done with the first item. I knew my hair would look messy. Still wet. I knew the birthmark on my neck wouldn’t be covered. I knew he’d look at the photo tomorrow morning while I was still asleep in his bed and he’d have questions.

I liked giving him questions.

The bridge was my favorite thing to photograph. At this time of year, the lights on it were white, and it gave it a celestial sheen. There weren’t many boats in the water, but I spotted a small one close to shore. I wanted to get the bridge and the boat in the photo. I didn’t want the hotel that charges close to a thousand dollars a night for a room with a view in the show. I’d been in one of those rooms once after a bad date. The room was filthy, but the view was nice. I can’t say if it was worth a thousand dollars though. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a thousand dollars all at once. For these three photos, he’d give me dinner at whatever restaurant I wanted, and enough to cover my rent.

Against my better judgment, I looked at the shot after I took it. It achieved everything I wanted, but I still took three more. The first was still the best. Sometimes it just happens that way.

The wide parameters of his third item was annoying. What did I want to take a photo of? Here in this little luxury apartment with a window I would kill to wake up in front of every morning. Maybe the bag of coffee. Maybe the bar soap. Maybe another photo of me on the floor, but without the robe this time. I went into his bedroom and took the frame out of the drawer by his bed. I don’t know if he knew that I knew this was there, but now he would. I snapped a photo of the photo. The woman standing next to him in it had her hair in her face, and she was laughing. Laughing about the hair catching in her mouth or about something else? No way to know. She was beautiful. I wish I could have taken a real picture of her. I wish I could have told her to get the hair out of her face. Let me see all of her. I’d say “Please.” I’d be polite.

Once I took the last photo, I put the frame back in its drawer and put the camera in its resting spot on top of the desk next to the now-completed list. Then, I got myself a glass of water and sat on the couch looking out at the bridge. He’d be here any minute, and I’d smile while he walked in. He’d tell me about all the photos he took while he was away, and I’d ask to see them.

That’s how we would spend the remainder of the night. Looking at photos he took of places I’d never go. Me asking him about each of them. Him waiting for me to fall asleep so he could see a photo of me, and a bridge, and something I was never meant to see.