A dark curl escapes the others.
With the imaginary photograph complete, she washed her hands and dried them on the bleached white towel. Walking quietly to the door, she eased it open and allowed her gaze to explore the empty hallway. She could imagine his arrival—a blur of black and white dancing through the glowing red. She would use a long exposure to capture him as he passed through her life. C–l–i–c–k and then click, click. Movement and a sudden goodbye.
When the streetlights outside the window blinked off one by one and the sun rose on the other side of the building, Sara's head was under a pillow. She surfaced briefly from a dream and then rolled back into sleep.
At noon, still lolling in the smoothness of the hotel sheets, she was reluctant to get up. Her mind was filled with images from other visits to Malaga.
click
The dripping foliage of freshly watered flowers on a third-storey balcony.
click
Through an iron gate, an abandoned wooden chair on the well-worn steps of a Gothic cathedral.
click
A scattering of birds as a young boy chases a dog through a half-forgotten street.
Sara enjoyed the visual luxury of the city—she could sit at a sidewalk café and take a handful of beautiful shots without leaving her chair.
When the phone rang, she was startled and forced to sit up. She reached over and answered, recognizing the silence immediately. It was her editor.
"Hello?"
"Sara, did I get you up?"
"No. I was just about to run out the door. What is it? Did you get the Portugal negatives?"
"Sara, I want to talk to you about your photos."
Pulling the sheet over her breasts, Sara listened. Joyce rarely called unless she wanted to change an assignment, and sometimes not even then. Email was cheaper and easier to use.
"I think I sent seven rolls," Sara said.
"Yes, I have them, but they're horrible. In fact, this is a terrible batch."
"I don't understand."
"Maybe you should check your camera."
"But—"
"These negatives are all trash. There's nothing here I can use."
"But, I thought you wanted shots of—"
"The subject matter is great," Joyce said. "I'm talking about the quality. They're all fuzzy. I think you should check your camera."
"I don't know what you're talking about. My camera's fine!"
"Well then check your head, because I can't use anything you sent."
The phone went dead in Sara's hand. Joyce gave no further instructions.
Unable to swallow, Sara got up and spit into the sink. Pulling her temples back to stretch her tired eyes, she glared at herself in the mirror. With an elastic band she pulled back her dirty hair and bent over to wash her face. She needed to test her camera.
Brushing off the woman at the reception desk, Sara rushed into the street. Adjusting her camera quickly, she took a series of frantic shots. Then, deciding she needed to match the conditions in Portugal, she hailed a cab.
Sitting in the back seat, her hand waiting to open the door, she rocked with the motion of the car. Reading her anxiety, the driver wove through the heavy traffic as quickly as he could. When they arrived, she thrust a bill at him without waiting for the change.
Standing on the beach, she squinted at the light reflecting off the water and the tiny speckles of sand. Pulling her camera out of the bag, she aimed low, just below the horizon. The intensity of the sun made it difficult to see.
Click
Three-quarters water. One-quarter sky.
Click
One-quarter water. Three-quarters sky.
Click
Half water. Half sky.
Click
A wave in transition.
Mechanically, everything about the camera seemed fine. Aim. Shoot. Advance. She had done this a thousand times. After shooting the rest of the roll, she walked back to the main road. This time she would develop the prints. She wanted something that she could study with her own eyes.
With twelve hours to wait for the film to be processed, Sara sat in a crowded sidewalk café drinking strong black coffee. Absently she stared at the texture of the table. When her eyes glazed over, she shifted to the dark green foliage dangling from the wall beside her. It moved from translucent to opaque as the wind blew it in and out of the dappled sun.
Jittery from the coffee and the anxiety of the wait, Sara walked down to the harbour. With the orange glow of the sky behind it, she chose a perfect angle to sit and watch the sun fall. In the distance, there were small boats returning, full of fish and tired men. The rusty hues of their bodies matched the sky. Out of habit, Sara lifted her camera and took a few shots. Then she waited for her subjects to draw nearer.
On the boat she chose, the fish shone silver and grey, their mouths pale against the black of the floor. Three men, with faces wrinkled from many seasons of sun, shouted with their arms—move this way, more to the left, now tie her off. Sara waited until their faces had turned away. She wanted hands and rope and squirming fish, not the eyes of tired fishermen. Although she tried to tighten the focus of her telephoto lens, she couldn't get a clear view. She shook it, shielded her face, wiped the lens clean. But there was no change.
Kicking up stones, she started walking the short distance back to the hotel.
Taking a shortcut down a quiet, narrow street, she watched a man come out of his repair shop. As he turned to lock the door, she saw "Fuji" and "Kodak" on large plastic signs posted in the window.
"Perdón, Señor! Habla inglés?"
Looking her up and down, he answered suspiciously, "Si. Un poco."
"Do you repair cameras?"
"Si."
"Please," she started to dig hers out of the bag, "the focus is blurry."
"No. Today I am closed."
"It's an emergency," Sara pleaded.
"Five minutes." He held up his hand, displaying each finger in case she didn't understand.
While Sara waited
