Photographs

“You the guy looking for a roommate?”

Jonathan stared at the girl standing outside his front door. No more than 23 or 24, she had waist-length straight strawberry blonde hair and huge heavily made-up blue eyes. She was tall and willowy, and a cropped top showed off a smooth belly sporting a silver navel ring. Her breasts were upswept and firm, and her nipples were clearly visible though the thin white material of her top. On her left shoulder was a tattoo of some sort of flower, probably a dahlia, and on her ankle was another tattoo made to look like some kind of ankle bracelet. She had a bored, vaguely surly expression.

At first he was so stunned by her he had no idea what to say.

“Well, uh yes...come on in,” he finally said. “Would you like some coffee and donuts?”

“No.” she said. No. Just like that.

Jonathan smiled at the girl, but she just stared back impassively. Was that a smirk he saw on her lovely face?

The girl walked past him, sending a hint of some kind of floral fragrance as she brushed past. “Mind if I look around?”

She headed toward the kitchen, her shimmering hair swinging behind her like a curtain of spun gold. Jonathan followed her.

“Um...you haven’t told me your name.”

“Oh, sorry.” She smirked for real this time. “I’m Megan.”

He wanted to tell the little bitch to get lost, but all he could do was stare at her like an idiot.

Jonathan brought the donuts to the kitchen table and started a pot of coffee.

“Hey, I need to use the bathroom.”

“Sure, it’s over there,” he said, pointing to the door across from the kitchen. “Then I guess I can give you the grand tour.”

She took a long time. When she finally came out she started toward the two bedrooms down the short hall. Now he had to pee.

“Now it’s my turn,” he said.

“Whatever.” She’d left the toilet lid up, and the sink was splattered with water. He wiped the sink with a towel, then unzipped his pants to pee. That’s when he saw it. Right in the middle of the seat was a perfectly round blood clot, looking for all the world like an uncut ruby. Megan was having her period. It was so primal. Jonathan felt a stirring in his groin. He glanced in the wicker trash can next to the toilet. Sure enough was a blood-soaked sanitary napkin. His stomach turned at first, then his arousal increased. He picked up the napkin by its ends, and saw a larger blood clot sitting on the napkin like a dollop of Jello. He folded it over, and wrapped it up in some toilet paper, and dropped it back into the trash. He wouldn’t broach the subject now and risk embarrassing her, but if she was considering becoming his roommate, she would have to work on her personal hygiene.

Megan looked around the apartment in silence, every so often tossing back her glimmering mane. Jonathan followed her, unable to do anything else. He felt like his body’s actions were no longer under his own volition.

“This is a cool place,” she finally said.

“Yeah, I kind of like it myself.”

They went back to the tiny kitchen, and Megan took another donut. They sat down at the table.

Megan looked at him intently and directly. “So when can I move in?”

“Whenever you want. I’ll have to get an extra set of keys made. I can get them to you by tomorrow afternoon.”

Suddenly Megan reached out and squeezed Jonathan’s hand. Before she could remove her hand, he gripped it in his own. He looked at Megan’s face, and saw the color rise in her cheeks. His fingers danced lightly over her smooth white ones. Megan took a deep breath, and tossed her hair back again. The motion caused her breasts to quiver and shift under her top. Jonathan felt that on some level they were communicating, and his erection pressed against his jeans. The intimate gesture of hand contact somehow did not seem inappropriate or one-sided at all. Yet he still wasn’t altogether sure he liked her. He could see her as his lover, but not as his friend.

Finally Megan removed her hand and ran her fingers through her coppery hair.

“So you’re a student at NYU?”

“Yup. Art history.” She kept preening. “Actually, I haven’t decided if I’ll continue with it or not.” Jonathan watched her absently finger her navel ring as she spoke.

“It’s kinda interesting though,” she continued.

“Then why would you change?”

“Why not?” Megan quipped.

This girl was seemed selfish, spoiled. Yet her boldness and who-cares attitude intrigued him.

Lisa got up again and headed toward the living room.

“You take these pictures?” She asked, indicating the large group of large black and white photographs mounted on one stark white wall.

“Yes, I did,” Jonathan said.

“They’re interesting. You a professional photographer?”

“Not yet,” Jonathan said, smiling.

“You do your own developing too?”

“The darkroom is in that other bathroom at the end of the hall.”

“Cool.”

After she left, Jonathan could not stop thinking about her. He ached to take pictures of her, fill the empty walls of the apartment with her image.

He ached to fill his apartment with her presence too.

And he ached to make love to her.

Megan was snarky and annoying as hell and yet something about her stirred Jonathan’s emotions. It confused him because he had never been so powerfully attracted to anyone he didn’t actually like.

Illogical as it may have been, the main reason Jonathan wanted her to move in was to photograph her. His recent photos had been lacking vitality; he felt that Megan could somehow provide that missing element. He was tired of the same old subjects: elderly people sitting on benches at the mall, children playing on the playground, babies nursing at their mothers’ breasts, teenagers playing soccer, landscapes, or buildings. He idly fingered the strap of the camera case that hung from a large hook next to the rusted porcelain sink in the tiny back bathroom that served as his darkroom.

And of course, he wanted her too. He imagined her long white legs drawn up and spread open to receive him. He pictured his own body hovering over hers, his long brown hair sweeping across her perky upswept breasts and insouciant young face. He saw Megan’s California-sunset colored-hair spilled out over the pillow, a glorious aura of shimmering coppery strands, perhaps the strands around the periphery of her face made darker and damp with perspiration. Her long white tapering fingers would slide through Jonathan’s hair as he slipped his throbbing penis inside of her...

He felt aroused, and unzipped his jeans, letting them fall to the floor. He touched his erect penis and felt a droplet of moisture already forming at the tip. He closed his hand around it...

Suddenly, there was a jolting clap of thunder, and as if in response to it, the charcoal grey sky outside the window opened up and sheets of rain crashed down, interspersed with almost continuous peals of thunder and flashes of blue-white lightning. He closed the window and removed his t-shirt, and went across the hall to his tiny bedroom, and lay naked upon the futon. . In his imagination he pulled out of Megan, who arched up toward him, one hand rubbing herself, and the other massaging her erect pink nipples. She began to thrust her pelvis and moan. He entered her again, feeling the velvety walls of her vagina close around him like a glove. He felt her cervix nestling his swollen head. The thunder booming outside seemed to be in counterpoint to the almost electrical currents of pleasure that were building up inside his body. Finally, he came intensely, crying Megan’s name. Another deafening clap of thunder seemed to propel his orgasm throughout his body until every cell was quaking. When his orgasm finally abated, he lay panting on the futon that was now soaked with perspiration, physically and emotionally spent, the now-receding rumbles of thunder registering somewhere on the edge of his consciousness.

He could think of nothing but Megan. Every time the phone rang, he jumped, hoping it was her with an affirmative decision. Bored, he began to idly go through the several piles of black and white photographs sitting on the worktable next to his futon.

There were several photographs of an elderly couple sitting in front of the fountain at the mall. The nearly bald man was reading a newspaper and the white-haired woman sat with her hands folded over a patent leather purse with an old fashioned clasp on the top. They did not speak or even look at each other, and appeared to be completely out of place in the garish, circus-like scene that surrounded them. Behind them, standing by a large potted palm tree on the far side of the fountain, were three high school age kids, a goateed boy and two girls. On the bench in front of them was an enormous boom-box. The boy had spiky blue hair and was wearing a pair of very baggy cargo pants, black Skechers, and a black T-shirt with a shocking pink X on its front. He was deep in conversation with two girls, each dressed nearly identically in low-slung embroidered jeans, platform shoes, and cropped tank tops. One of them had a cardigan slung over her arm and the other was wearing a bandanna of some sort, tied tightly behind her head with the ends tucked in, giving the effect of a skullcap. The girl with the cardigan had a navel ring. Jonathan thought of Megan in her skimpy tops and navel ring.

He picked up the top photograph from another pile. This was a photograph of some old brownstones around Union Square he had taken last summer and had found interesting at the time. He’d liked the play of light and shadow, the way the bright sunlight contrasted with and brought out the interesting features of the old dark buildings. It reminded her of that painting by Edward Hopper–“Sunday Morning.” The remaining photographs in the stack were of some other brownstones on the same block. In these, three elderly Italian men were perched on a steep stoop of one of the buildings, playing cards. Two of the guys had beer bellies; all were laughing or smiling. The man on the lowest step was missing a number of teeth. They looked like they had difficult lives, and yet they seemed happy and content with life.

Jonathan sighed. All the photographs were good, even very good, but they were all missing that ineffable element that made a photograph great as opposed to just good. He knew instinctively that if he were to photograph Megan, that element would be present. He thought about a series of moody, shadowy photographs, which would capture Megan’s inherent sadness that she tried so hard to hide behind a bitchy exterior.

***

Megan called the next day. She moved in the day after that.

After she had settled into her bedroom (she hadn’t wanted any help moving in her few possessions), Jonathan brought up the subject of photographing her.

To his surprise, Megan didn’t laugh at him or say something derisive. Instead, her face seemed to soften and she simply said, “sure.”

Probably just fed her oversized ego, Jonathan thought.

Every day Jonathan couldn’t wait to get home from his tedious telemarketing job to see her and photograph her. Shyness on her part was completely lacking; she had no qualms about posing nude for him. Arousing as these sessions were for him, he told himself he would not begin a relationship with her–at least not until she made it clear in some way that she wanted to. He didn’t want to ruin their working relationship.

One night several weeks after she’d moved in he found Megan’s door open and the light on. He went in to turn it off and saw Megan naked on her bed, lying in a semi-fetal position, facing him. The sheet was pulled up only high enough to cover her genitals; her smooth, curved belly with its piquant, pierced navel and her smooth pink and white breasts were both clearly visible. In sleep, she looked excruciatingly innocent. The tension in her features relaxed, all the anger and hardness disappeared. Her hair was splayed gracefully across the pillow and her long bronze eyelashes rested softly against her pale smooth cheek. The corner of her full lips tilted downward slightly. The freckles that crossed the bridge of her nose appeared darker in the ambient light from the hallway, as they would on a little girl. Invasion of privacy or no, Jonathan had to have a picture of her like that. He tiptoed to his room to get his camera and began to set it up, being careful not to make any noise.

In the silence, Jonathan could hear her deep, even rhythmic breaths. Jonathan took a roll of photographs and Megan continued to sleep as if she was in a coma. Jonathan felt like he was under a spell, that his actions were no longer his own. He settled onto the floor next to Megan and rested his head on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, just listening. His erection was painful and he moved his hand under his boxers to stroke it to relief. Quietly he pushed back the sheet that covered Megan below the waist. Her breath hitched a little, and she shifted her position slightly. Jonathan’s hand froze in midair and his heart was pounding. Then she sighed and smiled slightly in her sleep. He gazed at her smooth buttocks and the crevice between her legs. He could just make out the pair of swollen pink lips between her legs. He began to stroke them with his free hand. Suddenly a rush of clear silky fluid bubbled out of her and she moaned. Her pelvis began to thrust rhythmically. His index finger dipped into her wetness and tasted it, and then he came. Megan never woke up. He got up on legs that felt as solid as jello, covered her with the sheet, turned out her light, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

That night he dreamt they were together in the undulating field of moss. The sky was a deep and unearthly blue, and everything was infused with late afternoon summer sunshine.

Megan was stretched on the moss, her knees pulled up, her toes pointed toward the ground like a dancer’s, her navel ring flashing. Her skin absorbed and seemed to re-radiate the golden light. Beneath and between her creamy thighs, cradled in the shadow made by her legs, the glistening lips of her vagina were clearly visible. As Jonathan watched, the lips darkened and swelled, then opened like an orchid. Pearls of silky fluid began to trickle out of her, then the trickle became a river of nectar, flowing down her crack and finally coming to rest in the soft moss under her in droplets like a shower of pearls. Megan reached between her legs and slid two of her long and delicate fingers into her vagina and rubbed her clitoris with the side of her thumbnail. Now she was moving, writhing and moaning as the river flowed faster, squeezing her thighs together rhythmically, contracting her stomach muscles, thrusting her pelvis, flexing and unflexing her calves, ankles, and feet. Her abundant and silky hair caressed and at times partially covered her erect nipples as she writhed, and slid liquidly around her body. Jonathan ached with longing for the girl but did not touch her, could not touch such perfect beauty.

The sumptuous verdant mat that lay in all directions undulated and churned in time with Megan’s movements. It began to crack around the edges, starting with the horizon, great chunks of moist green earth falling away into space until there was nothing left except the mound of mossy earth upon which Megan lay. Then the sky itself began to crack apart and crumble, falling away to reveal a black void of starless space beyond.

Now Megan convulsed with orgasm after orgasm, and Jonathan’s own sexual tension could no longer delay release. He came explosively. The he awoke and discovered his cheeks were wet with tears. He could not get back to sleep that night and went to his darkroom to do a little housecleaning.

***

It was now midsummer and Megan had passed her finals and was now on summer break. She spent her days reading, taking long walks, visiting friends and going to art house films and art shows while Jonathan worked. One evening after they’d eaten some take-out Thai food Megan asked him to help her sort through her CDs. Megan sat cross-legged on a Mexican rug, sorting through one pile of discs and placing them on a spin-a-rack, while Jonathan sorted another pile. Most of the CDs were grunge bands, angst-filled female singer-songwriters, and a little rap and hip hop. Ani DiFranco was playing on the stereo.

Megan was wearing a plain white fitted T-shirt without a bra and fatigue-colored drawstring pants. A black cardigan was tied around her waist as the evening was a little on the cool side. Her bronze hair spilled down her graceful back like a fiery waterfall and all but covered her small but rounded ass. Each time she moved forward to place a CD on the rack, her hair spilled forward into her face, and she would absently flip it back with her idle hand.

Jonathan caught himself staring at her. Megan seemed not to notice.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

“No problem,” said Megan, not looking up.

When Jonathan returned with his camera, she was smoking a joint.

She looked up from her CDs and saw Jonathan standing there with his camera, staring. “Want some?”

She was holding the joint toward him.

“No, thanks.”

Megan shrugged. “Whatever.”

Jonathan adjusted the settings on her camera. “Don’t change a thing,” he said, then aimed the camera and focused it.

Megan jumped up, protesting.

“If you’d rather I–“

“Nah, you just startled me, that’s all,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

She took a long drag on the joint and turned back the the CDs on the rug.

Something by Weezer was playing, a song about destroying sweaters.

Jonathan snapped the picture and smiled.

He couldn’t explain why, but he felt himself opening up more and more in Megan’s presence. Though it didn’t have anything to do with sex per se, it was undeniably sexual. The creative process that had been blocked for so long, newly oiled by unfamiliar and often overwhelming yet delicious emotions, was finally beginning to move its rusty gears. In some ways Jonathan felt that he and Megan were very much alike. About a decade ago, when he had been the same age as her, he had felt just as alienated and cynical. He could empathize with her. Like her, he had written dark apocalyptic poetry. Like him, she had a family that was cold and didn’t seem to care much. Despite Jonathan’s initial assumption, Megan was not a rich daddy’s girl living off his credit cards. She had not even attended college right after high school, but had had to work for a couple of years first in a minimum wage job to save some money to attend school. She now had a little money from her deceased grandmother that was paying her college and living expenses, but that would run out within a year or two and she would have to get a job again.. That was one of the reasons she had been thinking of changing majors: art history just wasn’t practical enough. Megan had no credit cards, and like Jonathan, she also appeared to have few friends (though it seemed to be by choice) and liked to keep mainly to herself.

Jonathan felt protective toward her, yet not at all like her superior or parent. He could not believe that he had ever disliked her, and knew, on some level, that Megan was having a similar awakening.

In early August Jonathan had a couple of weeks off from work. Now he had much more time alone with Megan, more time to take pictures of her and get to know her. For the first time, he decided to use color film instead of his usual black and white. He had never liked color photography much before, but Megan had changed his opinion. She seemed very comfortable with her body, or maybe she was just comfortable with him. They hardly left their walkup apartment at all, other than to run to the store for a few groceries, a fast food meal, or cigarettes for Megan. He was not sure why Megan trusted her; she said she had never trusted anyone. But her iciness was giving way to a childlike vulnerability. They talked all day and deep into the nights, listening to music, taking pictures, and sharing an occasional joint, only stopping when forced by sheer exhaustion to give into sleep. They also had started to make love, and Megan no longer slept in her own room but instead shared Jonathan’s futon with him and slept nude, where they held and touched each other in quiet contemplation and celebration . Several times they fell asleep after making love, Jonathan still inside her. A few times they danced, sometimes nude, sometimes not, swept away by the music and each other. But it wasn’t mere horniness. It was something even more primal and more essential and sublime. Jonathan hesitated to give it a name, yet he knew he was falling in love.

One morning Jonathan had planned to clean the larger bathroom, but hadn’t known Megan was in it. He had barged in, armed with Comet and a scrubber. Megan was standing on her tiptoes before the mirror over the sink, leaning forward, examining something on her face. She was naked, and her nipples were stiff, looking like pink pencil erasers. Her hair was tied up in a French twist, and Jonathan watched her for a moment, appreciating how her body narrowed gracefully at the waist, then flared out again into a pair of round, perfectly smooth buttocks. The room was permeated with the smell of sandalwood that failed to completely mask the fainter scent of her hair and perspiration. Jonathan liked that: the girl was an angel but still very human. Her clothing was strewn on the floor, her underwear balled up in the corner near the tub. Her socks were in another mound near the wicker trash can. He came out of his momentary reverie and began to apologize for barging in, but Megan just laughed.

“That’s okay. Just popping a zit,” she quipped.

Jonathan couldn’t believe she could have a zit.

Jonathan turned to leave. “Hey, where you going?”

“Well, you’re busy, I was just going to clean this room. I’ll do it later.”

“No, stay.” Then, in a tiny voice, “please.”

“I want you to give me a bath.”

Jonathan laughed and held up the Comet and scrubbing brush. “I come prepared.”

“You’re crazy!” Megan laughed and turned on the bath water.

She turned toward Jonathan, grasping his hand and placing it between her thighs. They were wet, slippery.

“Tidal wave,” she smiled. Her eyes sparkled.

Jonathan’s erection strained against his trousers.

Megan stepped into the tub and sank back with her knees up. She handed Jonathan the washcloth. “Wash my back.”

“Okay,” Jonathan said, taking the washcloth from Megan.

Her skin was perfect, the light brown freckles on her shoulder blades, knees and arms only emphasizing its whiteness. She looked like she was made of marble. He squeezed the washcloth over Megan’s back, watching the water cascade down in little rivulets. Megan arched back and moaned softly. As Jonathan began to wash Megan’s breasts, Megan began rubbing her thighs rhythmically together. The water sloshed intimately against her body as she moved. Jonathan was hard again.

“Get in,” Megan breathed.

Jonathan dropped his trousers, stepped into the tub, facing Megan. Megan spread her legs to allow him room, and as they embraced, Jonathan was aware that their most intimate parts were touching. They held each other and kissed deeply, endlessly, rocking gently together in the water. Jonathan felt his penis slide deeply inside of her of its own accord. They sat this way, gently rocking, succumbing to the tender feelings that overcame them and seemed to melt them into each other.

“Megan.”

“Yes?” Megan panted. Her eyes were still closed.

He thrusted gently, then stopped.

“Open your eyes.”

Megan’s eyes flew open and softened.

Jonathan thrusted again then held himself inside her. She closed around him.

“I love you,” Jonathan blurted out.

Megan blushed, grinning, but didn’t say anything.

I’m so stupid, Jonathan said to himself.

“I love you too.”

They fell back into each other’s arms, kissing deeply and continuing their lovemaking until the water became too lukewarm for comfort. They spent another half an hour drying and dressing each other.

Then they got to work cleaning the bathroom together.

***

Jonathan felt as if a riptide of creativity had been launched within him. Megan’s aura seemed to transform any part of the world she touched or had the slightest contact with, infusing everything with an aura of beauty that it did not inherently possess. Jonathan wondered if Megan had helped him see the world as it really was, to see the sparkle and beauty of things that was really there all the time, but that was rarely noticed. Why was it always so easy to see the shadows and ugliness of the world, but not its beauty? Or was he seeing Megan unrealistically, infusing her and what surrounded her with an imaginary loveliness that existed nowhere but inside his own imagination?

Jonathan hoped he could sustain this high level of creativity. He was able to transform his heightened sex drive into artistic passion that breathed life into his photographs as it never had before. But he had to avoid trying to analyze it too much, as doing so would turn his mind inward and as a result might destroy this high state of awareness, this newfound loss of ego boundaries.

The week after Megan started classes again, Jonathan developed his latest batch of photographs– he thought his best--in his tiny darkroom. Perched on the toilet that doubled as a seat when he worked, he watched, transfixed and nearly trembling with anticipation, as the images he had replayed endlessly in his imagination since he had taken the pictures materialized into concrete reality on the sheets of photographic paper.

Megan sitting in her darkened bedroom, the early morning sun streaming through the blinds. She was perched on a Naugahyde-covered diner stool, her long legs spread, her toes pointed toward the floor like a dancer’s. She arched backward, her hands gripping the back of the stool, her breasts jutting outward, their pert nipples tilted up as if flirting with an unseen suitor. She wore a long full gypsy that reminded Jonathan of something Stevie Nicks would have worn, its hem rumpled softly about her knees. She wore nothing else. The skirt sat low on her hips, and her navel ring caught the light. Her hair cascaded down her back and hung around her shoulders like shimmering ribbons. Her eyes were closed in an expression of quiet ecstasy. The light lit up her face and hair like an aura; the rest of her was left in semi-darkness.

Megan lying on her side on the living room floor, an afghan curled around her knees, her bare toes poking out, the tattoo encircling her ankle clearly visible. She had been reading a book, her head propped on one hand, her other hand idly twisting a long strand of hair. The day had been overcast and rainy, and melancholy light came in through the rain-streaked window. Megan was dressed completely in black; the only bright spot in the photo was her radiant hair.

Megan sleeping in the middle of the afternoon, stretched out like a cat by a fire, nude under the thin sheets. Her clothes were haphazardly strewn on the floor and foot of the futon. One arm dangled limply toward the floor, its relaxed hand hovering over an empty container of Moose Tracks ice cream and a small ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

Megan standing on the pitted wooden stairs dressed in a jean jacket and black corduroy jeans, laughing, her head tossed back, her hair hanging over the back of the wooden banister. Behind her on the stark white wall were a few of Jonathan’s black and white photographs of elderly people and buildings.

A portrait of Megan from the waist up, wearing a gauzy white top, unbuttoned. She was turned slightly to the side. She gazed steadily into the camera lens and her face was nearly devoid of expression. If anything, she appeared angry. One had to look closely to see the tears on her cheeks. Her period had been due (she was having it now), and her breasts, visible under the flimsy fabric of her top, looked especially full and heavy. Her usually flat belly looked soft and rounded, and her right hand fingered the navel ring. In her left hand was an-almost finished cigarette, dangling there as if forgotten.

Megan sitting on her bed dressed only in panties, diddling with a guitar. Her hair fell over her long fingers that caressed the guitar’s strings. She had not known at the time she was being photographed.

Jonathan studied the pictures for a long time. He was pleased. Reverently, he finally placed them on the small vanity before leaving the darkroom. Megan was still asleep. The just-risen sun turned everything in the small kitchen shades of rose and salmon. As he reached for the coffee pot to start a brew, he noticed it too gleamed as if made of copper.

***

As their relationship deepened, photographs of Megan covered the walls and replace the older black and whites, which were taken down one by one. Megan’s essence now infiltrated into every room except the bathroom, darkroom and kitchen. Megan didn’t seem to mind a bit; she relished being an artist’s model/lover.

She also proved to be a great cook and a talented singer-songwriter, sometimes performing at open-mike events and often Jonathan would join in the singing with her back at their apartment.

He had never believed he had a good voice and had always been embarrassed to sing before, but with Megan it felt just like making love to her.

***

“These are really good.”

Eric Rothman looked intently at Jonathan’s photographs through his bifocals, and stroked his dark goatee. He was a photographer friend of Jonathan’s but this was the first time he had shown any real interest in his photographs. Mr. Rothman was also a sometimes-agent.

“I think I could get you into the art show in the Village this September, Jon.”

Jonathan knew that the annual art show in New York’s Greenwich Village was a huge opportunity for any visual artist, and he wasn’t sure what to say.

“Do you have access to U-Haul or van or something?”

“I can get it.”

“Good. Let me see what I can do. You’ll have to get slides made of these to submit samples.”

The slides Jonathan sent to the show’s administrators were accepted, and he had rented a battered U-Haul to get his pictures to the show. On the day before the art show opened Jonathan realized he could not live without Megan and wanted to make a commitment to her. So he purchased an engagement ring of sapphire and white gold (Megan had a moral objection to diamonds) and planned to give it to her that evening as they prepared to make love. Jonathan could not concentrate on his dull telemarketing job at all that day, and practically ran the entire way to his apartment from the subway. But first he and Megan would have to take the rest of the photographs down from the walls, and wrap them in heavy brown paper to protect them in the U-Haul. He had picked up a few rolls of it the week before. He felt like a child the day before Christmas.

He was so excited he decided to leave work early, saying that he had an upset stomach. The key snicked in the lock of his apartment and he opened the door. Usually Megan was home by now and had started to cook an elaborate dinner for the two of them but the apartment was quiet and there were no cooking odors present.

He walked past the kitchen and felt strongly that something was wrong. His heart began to pound. He glanced around the apartment, calling Megan’s name. The apartment didn’t look right, it looked

empty.

Then he realized.

Megan’s pictures were gone! Panicked, Jonathan ran to his bedroom and the living room. The pictures on those walls were gone too. If someone had broken in to steal them, how come the key had worked when he came in? You couldn’t get in from the windows; there were no fire escapes from these windows and the apartment was on the sixth floor. Unless someone had come down from the roof directly above...

But the windows were all closed and locked. The apartment did not appear to have been ransacked. Other than the missing pictures, there was no sign of a break-in. He went back to the wall by the staircase where he had first noticed the empty walls.

They were completely smooth, there were no nails or holes at all in the plaster. Jonathan began to feel faint, and he held onto the banister to right himself, and took a few deep breaths.

Calm down, he told himself. You’re not going crazy.

He went to look in Megan’s room. It was empty. Nothing of hers remained. He opened the closet door. It was also empty except for the few boxes of magazines and old LPs he had kept in there since he had moved to the apartment. It looked as if Megan had never lived there at all.

Had Megan stolen the pictures and run off? It was the only logical explanation and yet...how to explain the complete smoothness of the walls, the lack of any evidence that any pictures had ever hung there?

On a whim, he decided to phone Eric Rothman. He couldn’t find the card with the art show administrator’s number Eric had given him and had never memorized it. He’d need to get that number from him so he could call to explain why he would not be able to attend the show tomorrow.

His fingers shook as he pressed in the digits. On the third try, he successfully got the right number. Please be there, he whispered as the phone rang.

He finally got through and Eric seemed a little puzzled as to why Jonathan suddenly needed the show administrator’s number but gave it to him anyway without asking why.

“Um, let me see...Jonathan Mazzucca...hold on, please...”

The woman put him on hold, and the minute or two of jazz music seemed to last an eternity.

“Mr. Mazzucca? I’m afraid I don’t show you on the schedule. “

“What?”

“Sir, your name is not on the list.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. You’re not here. I’m sorry, sir.”

Wait! Ma’am, I have my confirmation...I can get the letter you sent me.”

“Alright.” She sounded skeptical.

He had tacked it to the cork bulletin board next to the pantry closet only last week.

But it wasn’t there.

This was fucking crazy. He called Justin, a friend of his who had met Megan. Justin answered the phone right away.

“Justin, you have to help me.”

“What’s up, dude?”

“The pictures are gone...My letter from the art show is gone. “

“Break-in?”

“No! No one broke in. My girlfriend Megan, she’s gone, all her stuff is gone too, it’s like she was never here. And the pictures, those photographs of her I showed you–“

There was a silence on the other end and a low whistle.

“Dude, you really have lost it.”

“Huh?”

“I never heard of this Megan chick. Just a few days ago you called me, and talked about how lonely you are and how much you wish you had a girlfriend.”

Jonathan collapsed onto his knees, his mouth like cotton, his heart feeling like it had stopped.

“Get hold of yourself, dude. Want me to come over? I have some great weed. You need to chill.”

Still unable to speak, he dropped the phone back in its cradle.

He fell onto his futon without even removing his clothing.

Chill. What a weird word, he thought, as he drifted into sleep.

“Jonathan.”

He woke up, and saw Megan sitting on the edge of his futon, smiling at him.

Giddy with relief, he reached out for her.

“Oh, Megan, my God, I thought you–“

Her image fragmented into the air like so much dissolving soap.

Jonathan’s hand froze in midair, and then he awoke again.

The room was dark, and the only sounds he heard were taxi horns, sirens, and an occasional drunken shout from the streets far below.

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