Five
Jenny
This is it. The start of my new life. And if you’d asked me two weeks ago what it’s like to be a photographer, my guess would have included a well lit studio with black drapes. Maybe a tripod or a green screen, or those upside down umbrella thingies that bounce the light.
You know. That stuff.
But after two weeks of living with Lincoln, I know better—for instance, that photographers come in different flavors, and my roommate is the wild, free form kind. The type who strikes out across the globe with a battered passport and a camera, and who only comes home to do a load of laundry and book the next flight.
Figures.
Because Lincoln is not shy or neat. He’s not orderly or controlled. He’s a tattooed wild man with scruffy jeans and a scruffier jaw; even when he’s doing something nondescript like washing dishes or sitting on the sofa, he crackles with restless energy.
It makes sense that his work pushes boundaries. That he’s a rising star.
I mean… how could anyone not be drawn to him?
Frankly, I’m surprised he’s stayed here this long. Pretty much the moment he moved in, I started counting down the days until he’ll surely go, and to my surprise, I’m not looking forward to it.
I get this hollow feeling in my chest whenever I think about Lincoln leaving. This sharp pain, radiating under my rib cage.
Weird.
“You got indigestion?”
I snatch my hand away where I’ve been rubbing my chest, mindlessly soothing the ache as I think about Lincoln’s inevitable departure. He’s shooting glances at me now, setting up his tripod on a patch of cracked concrete.
“Nope.” I squint at the view that Lincoln wants to capture. We’re in a fairground in the early evening, the lights of the rides glowing gold. Tinny music plays on a loop, and the air smells like roasting nuts and hot dogs. Visitors wander from stall to stall, tossing rings and firing pellet guns at balloons. “So people really pay you for photos like this?”
My roommate snorts, fixing his camera to the tripod. “Don’t hold back, Jenny. Tell me how you really feel.”
Heat burns over my cheeks, and I realize too late what I said. How it sounded. God, I’ve always been awkward, but I’ve never resented it this much before.
I don’t want to insult Lincoln. I don’t want our wires to get crossed. I like him and admire him so, so much, and half the time, it sounds like I’m telling him off for something.
“I didn’t mean… it’s not what I expected, that’s all.” Nerves writhe in my belly, but Lincoln’s not mad. When he throws me a smirk, his gray eyes are warm.
“People hire photographers for different kinds of jobs, right? Some want head shots or wedding photos or pictures of their dogs dressed in human clothes. And some want artistic shoots, as though they’re commissioning a painting.”
Okay. I think I follow.
“And someone commissioned you to take photos of this fairground,” I say slowly, because that part still doesn’t make much sense to me.
There’s a flash of white teeth. Lincoln leans over the camera, twisting the lens to refocus, and I watch the muscles in his strong back shift under his black t-shirt.
Even as night falls, he’s not wearing a jacket. The man’s impervious to cold. Would he feel hot if I laid my palm against his bare chest?
“The series is about the city. But, you know. This fairground has been here for nearly forty years. It’s part of the landscape now; there are local legends about it. Teenagers come here on their first dates, and one of the city’s best chefs started with a food truck here. It’s about trying to capture the spirit of a place, see?”
I do see.
It’s enthralling. He’s enthralling.
And so far, I’ve barely freaked out about leaving the apartment at all.
The wind picks up, gusting leaf litter around our feet, and I tug my sweater sleeves down to cover my fingers. I’m wearing black today, trying out my Lincoln persona. Being bold. Finding my courage.
My boots thump against the concrete as I stroll closer. The scent of wood smoke drifts past, like someone’s having a bonfire nearby. Lincoln doesn’t look up from his camera, but he shuffles to the side, making space for me.