Much of what I write is half-fiction, half-truth drawn from scenes I’ve witnessed and experiences I’ve been part of. This story seems no different. Sharing my writing is sometimes a leap of faith and I hope you enjoy this one.
She wanted to capture him, first with her camera and then with her words. That was the usual sequence. She had stumbled upon him, perched on a ledge near the museum. Dark hair tumbled in front of his eyes as he sat there writing in a small notebook. His dark blue jeans brown leather jacket and brown boots might have been pulled from a James Dean movie, and they only added to the air of mystery and coolness he possessed.
People like this don’t exist anymore, she thought to herself.
She had been walking home but she stopped and hovered close by. Something deep inside her wanted her to speak with him.
The sun was slipping behind the trees, casting a warm yellow-pink glow onto the white marble monument off in the distance. It was the perfect photo opportunity, and so she positioned herself at the edge of the walkway, facing the sunset, with him in her peripheral vision so she could eventually swing the camera in his direction. The camera started to beep as she took photos: sunset, monument, trees, stranger. One shot, and during it he had straightened and turned so his back was mostly toward her.
Would he notice if she tried to take more photos with the camera aimed in his direction?
She walked off a bit, sat on the first empty wood bench along the gravel pathway, and wrote the scene.
The night’s descent was spilling onto the stretch of green, darkening it, draping the tree branches in its veil. This stranger, this poet she couldn’t pull her mind from was the perfect character. He was the type that inspired novels and movies. She wondered if she was like that, if she could be muse to writers, if the stories of her life were worth preserving. Was who she was big enough to fill the pages of a novel?
She decided she would fill volumes.
{photo and words by me}
