The Photos Lie So Beautifully
Remembering an old love through the pictures we took one summer long ago
It was a year after she left that I found the roll of film. I had stuck it into the drawer next to my bed as she lay next to me, but we had never gotten around to developing it. Summer was too busy and too alive for us to slink into the basement, and besides, she was with me every day.
What need did we have for nostalgia?
But now, it was a different matter. I had a few letters and more than a few memories, but while absence makes the heart grow fonder, distance doesn't help.
I had the afternoon to myself, so I took the roll with me, climbed down the old rickety basement stairs, and flipped on the light in the darkroom. It took me a while to remember the process, but as the chemical smells filled my nostrils, I grew both impatient and afraid.
The negatives brought back taste, and under the enlarger, I could feel her touch. But it wasn't until the prints began to develop that the emotions returned along with the aching and longing I had managed to put off for months.
As the first image appeared, I felt the calm waters of the lake. She stood in just her underwear with a smile that burned. I could see the droplets on her skin, and her hard nipples called to me.
We had only kissed there on the shore––half-naked, newly acquainted, and more giddy than aroused. But I felt her breasts against my warm skin, and her lips were soft and full. She laughed when I squeezed her ass and told me I should be careful. We were interrupted by a pair of hikers before we got carried away, and we spent the rest of the afternoon splashing and playing until exhaustion overtook us.
The following image was more visceral, and I held it so tightly I nearly ruined it. She straddled me on the couch, her hands tying back her hair as I held the camera to my eye. The arch of her neck was as enticing as her bare breasts, and when I looked down, I could barely make out a tangle of hair between our legs where she sat on top of me.
It was a misty memory, and all I knew was that we didn't fuck that afternoon.
Instead, we spent hours and hours against one another. We kissed from head to toe, she took me into her mouth, and I tasted her for days. We came close again and again, but our restraint was as powerful as our desire.
There was one blurry photo of us by her pool. She had me in hand with her lips around me, but I had jerked up when her sister interrupted us, and the rest of the day was spent in anger and embarrassment.
In the next, I hovered above her, looking down as she covered her face. We were on my bed, or so I remembered, and her legs were open as I took the photo, telling her we should document our first time.
It was just a moment after I put the camera down that I pushed inside her. She bit her lip, and I took my time until the two of us joined together. We moved slowly at first, but then she grew more and more desperate, begging me to fuck her. I kissed her mouth and raised one knee to go deeper, and when I came, she told me she loved me.
There was a picture of her smoking at the diner before realizing she was angry and putting the camera down. And another of her on a swing in the park, her short dress blowing in the wind. It was blurry and poorly lit, but I remembered laying her down in the grass and tasting her with two fingers inside her until she came for the first time all summer.
It took effort to develop the image of her and our friend. I had moved from excited to mad with jealousy while she reminded me it was my idea. My hand shook as I stared at her face as she knelt on my bed while he fucked her from behind. Her smile was full of lust and desire, and she was right: I wanted the picture and the memory. I wanted to see her with him and feel my jealousy and excitement in equal parts.
It helped that I couldn't see his face. It helped that it barely felt real. But even with all that, I stared at it for too long, feeling my body betray me as I remembered her moans.
In the next one, I startled her in the shower, and it was adorable and far easier to see. She made me put down the camera and join her, and we kissed under the falling water and never once mentioned his name.
I held the camera up for the only photo of us both, our smiling faces hiding tears and grief. It belied the truth that we had broken up and left my heart aching.
The last one was nearly a month later, right before she moved. She lay naked on her bed, exhausted from our angry longing sex that left us hopeless and in love. I could see everything in her eyes and her half-smile that told me it was done but can't we be glad for what it was?
Back upstairs, I sat on the couch and remembered her touch and her hair. I pictured her goose-bumped skin and her teasing laughter; I was glad for the photos. Maybe I'd find one to send her so she might remember and hold on to that summer of fleeting love.
Once in a while, I take them out and sort through them, remembering the good parts and letting the rest be. On occasion, I think I'll call her, but something always comes up. She's no more the same as she was than I am, but the photos lie so beautifully.
And if I close my eyes, I can smell the chemicals from the darkroom and feel her against my skin, laughing into the camera as she tells me we don't need pictures to remember.
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