#1 of the Random High school Snapshot Series Title: Photo
2/23/04
The photography room was always dim, for obvious reasons. With the exception of the red lights that floated above the enlargers. It gave everything a reddish hew that made his skin look raw, and almost detached. It would as well make any reflections one would have with the light in the developer fluids completely disappear. Furthering the affect of making everything flat, and non-existent. All except for the fuzzy dark floating objects of the would be pictures that one would have a hard time making out. And the pungent smell of vinegar that always permeated the air, making it seem even darker, heavier. Not to mention the worried burn ones fingers would accumulate as you fished your photo through the respective chemicals. But only to point out his quiet animation as the picture properly darkened into existence. A serene sigh. The angst of doing it just right, his elation at having yet another perfect picture. His smiling lips gathering their washed crimson as he faced the red lights.

His brow would always screw up in concentration, the ridges between them standing out prominent above his eyes. Lank hair falling in chunks about his face, his wrinkled nose all that I can make out, as he inspects his work. He doesn't like the smell, but he tolerates it well. Among other things.

But the dark room was a different tale of whispered words. Feigning, brief touches. Winding his film onto the reel, fumbling even though his hands know the process well. I distract him; he is familiar with the concept even if he can not see, I am watching him. I know his eyes are wide open throughout this whole process. Wide and unseeing, the main sense is dispossessed. I sit upon the work bench, heels occasionally hitting the door of the useless cabinet. We like depriving each other of this particular sense; we pay more attention to the others. All light, all color is gone. Black without the white, that is how he described it to me once.

He will loose my glasses in his surprise, come up to me, rest his head on my shoulder, and mine on his. I trace the planes of his face with my fingers, enjoying particularly the dip where his chin meets his ear. I remove the color, the complication. He relaxes quickly; we don't bother with the exchange of saliva when we allow this incident to occur. He hums so softly when he is content, I can only hear it when we are like this, locked up in the dark. It sounds almost like a deep purr. My head on his bony shoulder, nose in his strongly scented hair. My stomach rolls pleasantly at the memory the smell provides.

I always wonder what posses him to take a picture of something, how does something capture his interest. What makes him want to freeze that moment in black and white, simplifying it by ripping away the color? Shadow unto light. I don't think he has ever taken an actual picture of me, it's been either of my hair, a section of my face, or maybe while I'm drawing. I figure anything else would just be redundant.

He knows I love watching him in the dark.