Iris

289/?: The Angels’ middle blocker, number 01, soaring through the air. She has one arm drawn back like an archangel about to swing their fiery sword.

The sound of the landing spike boomed across the court. Eve rolled her shoulders, briefly examining the photo of number 01 as she lowered her camera. The weight of it introduced a new crick in her neck upon every hour, but the cheers rumbling over her shoulders shook off the ache, leaving behind the shower of an odd thrill that thrummed the rest of the way down her body.

“They’re unstoppable!” said the woman standing next to her.

The buzz beneath her skin stopped as Eve turned abruptly.

“Number 01 is not only fast, but she’s stealthy! I never know what she’s going to do until she’s gone and done it.”

When she finished, she finally met Eve’s eyes, and they both stared at each other, in different flavors of surprise.

For Eve, it was because she realized the woman was Sylvie Garcia.

They had never formally met, despite working in the same department. The closest they had come were their names in the credits of the same articles—Sylvie Garcia as the journalist, and Eve Erikson as the photographer. The emails they exchanged during their brief collaboration were professionally un-noteworthy, a suitable distance that she kept with everyone she knew (except perhaps her mother),

Eve remembered to hum in agreement before raising her camera again. Sylvie likely had no idea who she is, and she’d rather not fumble through any introductions.

And the Angels were very much, indeed, unstoppable today. 

290/?: The Comets’ number 06 sprinting up for a spike.

291/?: Number 06 dropping to her feet, and the volleyball, streaking through the air with such a speed only a camera could capture in any decent resolution.

The libero was ready. It slammed into her outturned arms.

292/?: A glimpse of its shaky arc over the setter’s head.

293/?: The Angels’ setter’s face, scrunched in concentration as she is about to execute a brilliantly improvised, one-handed set.

294/?: She succeeds.

That had been enough to make up for the botched pass. The awaiting palm racked the ball onto the floor opposite the net with incendiary effect, as was with the crowd’s boisterous reception.

Her camera panned gradually across the crowd. She twisted her lens. The heavy weight of the camera was worth the impressive zoom, that allowed her to see what she perhaps never could have.

295/?: Two preteen girls, hugging each other in their excitement. They’re both mid-jump at different, unsynchronized heights.

296/?: A father, mouth wide in cheer, matched by his toddler sitting atop his shoulders. The child has no idea what’s going on, but she’s happy because everyone else is happy.

She heard Sylvie make an amused sound, a huff that escaped so clearly to her ears that Eve could only think that it was directed at her. She swiveled the camera toward her, peering at the woman through the lens, which she zoomed out to be able to see the other woman.

Sylvie only quirked her lips to the side, unabashed by the large lens that must be between her eyes at the moment. “Sorry. I was just thinking that I’ve never seen you smile before.”

Eve dropped her camera (to the end of its neck strap. She wasn’t a heathen.) “What do you mean by ‘never’?”

“I see you around, at a game or the office or a press conference or whatever. It’s one of the reasons why I use your pictures from the database so much. We’re at the same venue a lot and—"

“You,” Eve sputtered, “know who I am.”

“Of course. I’m a journalist. I notice everything.”

“Oh, okay.”

Sylvie tapped a manicured finger to her chin. “In particular, you always stick to yourself. Which is totally fine.”

“So…?” Eve prompted, only a little bit distressed.

“I just thought you always seemed a bit,” the other woman puzzled over the word, “muted. You fade away. I know that’s how photographers like to be, disappearing into the background, but just before, I saw you disappear into yourself. It’s kind of unsettling.”

Eve didn’t think she would know what that meant, but she did. Sighing, she raised her camera, readjusting to a deeper zoom and higher shutter speed. 

297/?: A man watching the current play with nervous anticipation, a hand clasped over his mouth. He’s wearing the Comets’ colors.

“You enjoy photographing the audience. I think that’s why I noticed you reappearing.”

298/?: A couple, with hands cupped around their lips as they shout inaudibly. It’s hard to tell if they are angry or just enthusiastic.

Sylvie was silent for a moment. “Sorry. I’m overreaching. And probably bothering you.”

Eve found that to be accurate. But she sighed again. “Yes. I do enjoy it.”

Eve liked photography, but she would never say that she loved it. However, as with most things, she did love the parts of it that she loved. It let her see. It gave her chances to disappear. 

Eve scrolls the aperture in three, swift strokes.

299/?: Sylvie, not smiling, but not-not smiling either. All the fans are an energetic blur behind her.

300/?: Now she is. Grinning, actually.

Eve continued looking at Sylvie through her camera. It felt safer that way, and Sylvie didn’t seem to mind. “Seeing other people so happy like that—it makes me feel the same way. Other people’s joy is powerful. I would rather be swept up by this than…” Eve trailed off. “It just so happens that I find that sort of joy in the court most often in the audience.”

“An audience to the audience,” Sylvie said. “I like that.”

“Thanks.” Eve pushed her hair out of her eyes and directed the camera back up to the stands.

“I’ll be yours.”

301/?: A wide view of the crowd, but massively unclear.

She forgot to toggle the setting again after switching subjects, among other reasons.

“What?”

“Your audience of one,” Sylvie said, crossing her arms. “How about we work on an article together?”

“What?” Eve repeated.

“I know, I know. We’ve technically worked together before, but we’ve never collaborated.”

“Exactly! So why me?”

“I can look at people. Find things. You bring something different out of them.” Sylvie canted her head and her tone, as if this was some sort of challenge. “Like the happiness of the crowd. The adrenaline of the players. That was why I always liked using your pictures so much, even if I didn’t know it at the time.”

Finally, dastardly, Eve felt her cheeks warm. Sylvie beamed as if she had proven something.

“I get to choose the pictures,” Eve said.

Sylvie extended her hand. “I think I can allow that.”

They shook on it.

Behind them, another ball slammed into the floor of the court. The sound was distant, a hit to the opposite side, so it was a point for the Angels again. The audience burst into thunderous excitement that harmonized with the one that awoke in Eve momentarily before. It almost seemed like she and Sylvie were the ones who had scored something.

Eve released Silvie’s hand, and she smiled.