It has been argued that dreams are when you work through your problems. His photographs of her have stagnated me. I cannot work through anything. I cannot hardly coerce my eyelids into closing. I’ve lost ambitions, grace, life. He could not photograph me even if he wanted to, I am not of essence.
He is on the phone with her, in the other room. I can hear him speaking slowly, deliberately to her. He is covering up lies, covering his ass.
I turn my body, tangling my legs in sheets. My exposed skin is chilled, the fan blowing air across my back. I stare at his camera. When he is here, his camera sits there on the nightstand, its lens mocking me. How funny it must see me, how observant it must be of my futile efforts. I know what forms play on his film, what images manifest in each frame. I can see her face, her crooked smile, her flat hair that hangs down in stringy tangles. I can see her, I don't need photographs.
My heart beats in the rhythm -click, click - that old camera open and shuts so slow. I need to see my existence shoved into that space. I must be documented.
That camera is so naked on the nightstand. It is far more naked than I am, in my bed covered by his lies, my masks. The camera has nothing. Its padded case, lying on its side, has been left on the floor. Its lens cover lies on the dresser, holding his keys. It is the most honest thing I have ever seen.
I hate that he even takes it out of the case. He walks in the door every night, I pretend to be asleep. He takes the camera out, opens the camera, and takes out the film. Then, slow and deliberate, he kneels down and takes a picture.
