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The Photographer’s Lament

Tuesday, November 14, 2006 | Skip to Comments

I looked deeply into her eyes and slowly lowered her onto the bed. Our lips met in a passionate kiss. “Oh, Boris!” She moaned. Our fingers fumbled with buttons and clasps as fabric yielded to warm, soft flesh. We held each other close, our naked bodies intertwined. “Boris, my love, I feel like I have known you my entire life. My body is yours!”

“Just a minute,” I said. “I want to capture this moment forever!” I disengaged myself from my bewildered lover’s embrace, arose from the bed and pulled the Polaroid camera from the nightstand. She smiled coyly, bit her lip and vamped for the lens. “You look beautiful. Wait, just hold that pose while I check the light.” I fumbled through my bag and retrieved my light meter. “Hmm. Let me open the curtains.” As I reached the window, I casually mentioned that the Polaroid was a vintage 1968 Land Camera with a 114mm lens and an electronic shutter. As I rattled off the specs, I decided that the night light streaming in from the window was a bit too harsh. I thought briefly about setting up a soft box but decided that it would be easier to just use a couple of a-clamps from my bag to quickly cover the window with a white sheet and defuse the light. I then moved all the dirty laundry away from the bed so I wouldn’t have to Photoshop it out of the photo later. Perfect. “All right, my love, let’s —”

Fuck. She was asleep.

Tags: fiction, funny, photography, story