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 1/125th at f11 by Smilodon



   Photo albums are the ossuary of our dreams.  I found it quite by
accident, rummaging in the loft among the boxes of once-read books and old
sports equipment.  There she was.  A beach in winter, wrapped up against
the wind that whipped the waves to whitecaps, frozen in the frame.  Her
hair was a tattered banner against the grey sky but the warmth in her smile
keeps the viewer from shivering.  It was one of my earlier efforts.  I
don't even have that camera any more.  Black and white, of course; I didn't
get the fixing quite right and it has started to flake around the edges - a
bit like me.

   She looks so impossibly young.  The wide, myopic gaze, the elfin face.
Memories of soft-breasted night: of gentle love amid the tangled sheets. 
The scent of her!  No one else wore 'Anais Anais' as sweetly.  It all came
flooding back.  I recalled the smoothness of her skin, the way she would
look at me through lidded eyes that always preceded a wild bout of
lovemaking.  The night of the Great Power Cut, we lay naked by the fire,
fucking joyously by candlelight.  The day the snow came, sudden and heavy,
closing the roads.  We couldn't get to work so stayed in bed, drinking
brandy and listening to the wind moaning about the eaves.

   Mostly I remember her hair: a riot of silken softness where I used to
hide from the world, as we clung to each other in the darkness.  The
incoherent mutterings of passion, declarations of undying love, resonate
within me still.  And yet, and yet... There is nothing in the photo of a
girl upon a beach to tell you that.  Just another pretty girl, caught in a
moment on a blustery day those many years ago.  The captured smile, the
waves stiff as meringue in the cold light.

   I turned the picture over.  On the back, in a youthful version of my
current scrawl, it bore the legend: "1/125th at f11."

   Later, as I lay beside her present self, listening to her soft
breathing, I could smile.  Yes, photo albums are the ossuary of our dreams.
Only memory can put flesh upon those bones.
   (C) copyright 2003, smilodon