Snap Shot

There was a well-known, famous and very funny comedian who was always destined for the stage and fame. His energy told you all you had to know about what he was and what he was for. The man was made to grab a crowd by the scruff of the neck and drag them to a better place. A place where people laughed at themselves, and each other, and in so doing exorcised the demons who’d hitched a ride inside them on their rollercoaster ride through life.

This man had his own demons. Everybody does, but comedians don’t have the luxury of laugh therapy. The gift they bestow is never meant for them. That is the price they pay. And so this elemental man brought a guitar onto stage as his shield. The guitar was what he did best and he believed in this inanimate object with such a passion that for him it lived. That guitar was his best friend and his protector. If he died on his arse as a comedian, then he would play his guitar and take that audience away from the car crash of his failed humour. 

Not once did he play that guitar in such dire circumstance. Neither did he transfer that belief from artfully crafted wood to his own flesh, blood and soul. He remained fearful of his own inadequacies until his dying day and when he breathed his last, he did so with the neck of his beloved guitar grasped firmly in his right hand and the hand of his wife, lover and soulmate in his left hand. She believed in him enough for the two of them, but he never quite worked out that he brought her on stage with him whenever he plucked up that guitar of his. It was her and always her, the instrument was merely a symbol of her love and belief in him. She knew, but she never said a word, she was content with their arrangement and did not want to risk it for what could only amount to vanity.

*

He sits in the park with his camera on his lap. He is acutely aware that he has to be careful with the lens and where it is pointing. If there was a hint or a suggestion of wrongdoing then his world would turn ugly in an instant, and whatever he did to protest his innocence would make matters so much worse. That sort of protest is the worst admission of guilt. 

The day is sunny, but there is a cool breeze that flirts with him in concert with the sun. Right now, the sun is staring down at him and the breeze is welcome. But all too soon, clouds will wrap themselves around that ball of fire and the breeze will hint at a cruelty that does not belong in a Summer’s day.

His sense of belonging sits on his lap. He is here for a reason and that purpose centres him. He takes time and he uses it. Focusing on what will be, just as long as he is what he needs to be. There is a moment up ahead, but he can only capture it if he readies himself, anticipates that moment and does exactly what is required.

Monitoring the world around him, he becomes still and at some point, he falls through a gap of existence. He’s a statue. He is in his own state, and nothing and no one will break this. As everything falls into place, he slips the lens cover off and raises the camera. He is a sniper and he knows he will only ever get one shot. That is all it takes, and that is all he needs. He is in total control as it happens. His breathing slows and as he presses downwards there is no other movement from him. He is a part of that shot. At one with the world he is ensnaring. In this frozen moment he is real and nothing else matters.

Then it is done and he knows he has succeeded, but the confirmation of his success is off and away across the city in a small, dark room where the trophies of his previous safaris hang out to dry.

“Do you think you got it?”

He blinks himself back into an existence that he finds abrasive. He does not rush and in not rushing he is afforded a thought that calms him further and predisposes him favourably towards the woman who has taken a seat next to him on the park bench; she waited. She waited and this means that she respected what he was about. That is good. It does not necessarily mean that she respects him, or ever will. That is another matter and it lays somewhere in the future, perhaps with fingers interlaced behind its head as it smiles up at a friendly sky, or broken and mutilated, knife wounds in its back. If there is middle ground betwixt the two, he has yet to find it. His is a binary existence. The shot is true, or it misses entirely.

“Yes,” he says, the uncertainty in his voice is his own and not anything to do with what he has just now achieved, “yes I have.”

“How can you tell?” she asks with a curiosity that is genuine. They both feel that authenticity. Interest cannot be faked.

It is that interest that captures their moment and they are bound by it. A frame encloses them and affords them a space to explore their interest further. There is an inevitability to what happens next, it would be sacrilege to break the frame and vandalise what has been given to them both.

The thread from the park to the dark room is almost visible. She will see the product of his efforts come what may. They stop for coffee. A pause in the proceedings that builds the anticipation and excites them both. The journey along the thread is foreplay, but there is nothing sordid or forbidden in what they are about. Instead, there is the purity of innocence and they enjoy every moment unselfconsciously.

There is another natural pause in his flat. It would not do to rush. He does not forget his manners and she would not have allowed that in any case. There is a way of doing things and they are a partnership now. A tacit agreement occurred at the outset of their encounter. She may defer to his expertise, but they are equals in this endeavour and beyond its conclusion.

He is relieved to discover that he has a bottle of red. Company is rare, but so too is his drinking in the flat. Drinking in solitude is a dark gateway to a place he has glimpsed and does not want to reside within. 

“What are the subjects of your art?” she asks of him.

He tries to supress the schoolboy smile inspired by such direct praise. She said art, he thinks and his chest puffs out like a territorial robin and the smile cannot help but appear in his eyes as well as upon his mouth. 

“The world,” he replies, “I capture moments in the world that I fear would otherwise be missed.”

As the words escape into the space between them, he has a moment of regret. To his own ears he sounds lofty and pretentious. He wants to take those words back, dress them up smartly and tell them to behave themselves.

She smiles and nods, “I like that,” and she genuinely does. 

He feels tears reminding him of emotions he has fought for far too long. Hope drives them forth from a well in his heart. He hides behind his wine glass and composes himself. Missing the given opportunity to thank her for her interest and her liking. Thank her for being here and being her. So many missed opportunities such as this. Connections broken before they ever had a chance to grow. If relationships were trees, they would be brutally and arbitrarily pruned into abominations from the very outset.

There is now an awkwardness to him in his failure to do the right thing, “shall we?” He rises, the question is an invitation and he awaits her reply with shyness and trepidation, aware that he’s broken their contract and in so doing he has invited a valid rejection.

She finishes her wine and stands, swaying as she straightens. He steps forward, but cannot bridge the distance between them, feels helpless and lost.

“It’s OK,” she smiles, “I… haven’t drunk in a while.”

He returns her smile, “me neither.” The truncation of this sentence is a white lie. He drinks. The flat is a sanctuary from that activity. His drinking is conducted out in the world. Quiet corners. Hides from which he can observe people in a failed attempt at understanding. Only participation would ever afford him that, and he’s always the spare player. Never getting to the status of being picked last, he is yet to be picked. He tells himself this is fine. Too much water under the bridge. He no longer understands the game anyway, so it’s just as well that he isn’t asked to play it.

He leads the way to the dark room. The room was laughingly described as a spare bedroom by the estate agents. The room is a spare part arising from bad planning and it suits him fine. There are no windows. This room is trapped in the centre of proper and useful rooms. A waste of space until he came along and imbued it with purpose and meaning so that it became his favourite place, not only in the flat, but in his world.

This is where the magic happens and where he comes alive. He does not pause for thought, he enters, ushers her in and does his thing. There is no intrusion here. She is here for all the right reasons. She is interested. She wants to listen and she wants to see. That is so rare in the world he observes and it warms him to be in its presence.

In turn, she is charmed by the passion that shines from him as he transforms the film into image. She watches him intently, allowing herself glances at the photos that festoon the small room. As the new photo dries and the prophesy of his success is fulfilled she makes appreciative noises. It is enough. It is just right.

As he turns to her to ask her what she thinks of the photo, she scoops him up in her arms and hugs him, “you did it!” she breathes belief and love into him and fills him with something he has been missing all his life. 

He relaxes into the embrace and gives her something he never knew he was in possession of. As the transaction completes, he raises his arms and returns the hug, but does so carefully and with a newfound grace. Instinctively, he senses a fragility that he could not bear to cause damage to. His arms encircle her protectively and he gives her exactly what she needs. They are speaking to each other without words and exchanging meaning that it will never be possible to articulate with any other language.

Outside the room of magic, they return to their seats. He has always sat in the seat he occupies. Now she has a place here and in his heart. He does not question this. That thread they followed from the park to his flat is theirs and theirs alone. 

“Would you photograph me?” she asks as she lowers the glass of water she opted for in favour of another glass of wine. 

He lowers his own glass of water. Glad to be rid of it. Unable to control its weight or shape any longer. He looks upon her, considering her words, and as he does, he experiences a desire that rises up inside him and blots out all else, until all he wants is to capture her image again and again and again. A quest that he doubts will ever do her essential self justice, but one that he is prepared to undertake, because if he can catch even a glimpse of who she really is, then all of his photography will have been worth it. This is why he is here and now she has come to him and made his existence into a life, a life that promises to be complete at last.

He smiles and as his lips turn upwards, tears fall from his face, “I would be honoured…” he waves a trembling hand at invisible cobwebs, “I’m sorry. I…”

He does not see her move. She is beside him. An arm around his shoulder. A fellow conspirator. They are in this together. She wipes his tears away with the softest of hands and that simple show of affection further undoes him. He slumps into her and cries his heart out. She holds him until the storm subsides and an inexplicable grief passes from him. He looks up at her with red rimmed eyes, childish and vulnerable, “there is nothing I’d rather do,” he tells her. 

She kisses him on the forehead, “good.” 

That is their first kiss and she spends the night. They sleep together, but they do not sleep together. He is glad. He celebrates her purity and does not want to sully it. She has promised to give him more than she ever could in bed.

The following morning they begin.

“You haven’t taken a photo of me,” she chides as she eats toast and drinks tea.

He hurries off to fetch his camera. A schoolboy keen to begin an assignment that will never feel like a chore. He takes shot after shot as they follow their thread together. Never is an image staged or contrived. It is not that she ignores the presence of the camera. The camera is an extension of him and she accepts him entirely.

Not once does she return to the dark room. She has seen his inner sanctum and she respects it as his place. The rest of his flat they share. They never part. She brings him to her house and they spend time between those places equally. Everything flows even as he captures biopsies of her life with him. 

The photos accumulate and she sees none of them. This is a silent agreement between them. Somehow he knows that she will request a viewing when the time is right. That there is a point that they will reach when a change will occur. He senses it, but never questions what it is.

There is change in the both of them throughout their journey along the thread. He understands that this is how it is supposed to be. He is happy. She is happy. They are happy thanks to the thread. Without it, they would be lost components without purpose, meaning or love. 

Three months after their initial meeting, they are sat in their seats, enjoying a shared silence that many search for throughout their lives, but never find. The camera is in his hands and he is looking through it without a whisp of conscious thought. He views her through the lens and he at last sees her in her entirety. This is the shot. As he takes the photo it all makes sense. All of it makes sense. Every last second they have spent together, and all the time that will flow beyond this point.

Lowering the camera, he discards it upon his lap and gazes upon the perfection of love that resides within this woman, extends beyond her and completes him in a way he never knew possible. This love of theirs hurts, and the pain of it makes it the most beautiful thing imaginable.

“Do you think you got it?”

He nods, and the movement breaks something within him. He places the camera to one side. Doubts he’ll take another photo like the one that sits in the chest of the camera like a beating heart.

He goes to her and showers her with kisses and holds her. Lifts her easily and carries her to the bedroom. They share themselves with each other and when it is done, she rests her head on his chest and cries. He cradles her there until she is done and her pain subsides.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to him.

“Don’t be,” he tells her, “never, ever be sorry on my account. This was all meant to be. You are beautiful. You brought beauty here to my life and to my heart.”

“Can I see?” she asks.

“Of course.”

Now she returns to the dark room and they watch as the magic happens.

“Perfect,” she sighs.

He smiles and then he takes her into his arms and holds her in a way that he will remember forever more. Capturing her forever.

“How long?” he asks.

“Two more months,” she breaths the words out into the dark space.

She lives for another three. He never leaves her side. She replaces his camera and no longer does he have a need to capture palatable morsels of life for his meek consumption. Now he takes it all and shares it with her. Records each breath and each sigh with every fibre of his being. Determined not to miss a single thing.

She dies in his arms, sitting in her seat in his pokey flat, made all the tinier by her presence and the love she brought here for him. He gazes down at her through the filter of his love and smiles at everything they have shared. Smiles as he sees far beyond the image to the continuing presence of their thread.

“Perfect,” he whispers to her as she slips away from this world to await him in the next.