the photography labs, she took a deep breath in—the smell hadn't changed. It was the same vile combination of chemicals mixed with hundred-year-old, over-exhaled air. The only fresh oxygen was at the bottom of the stairs where it blew in off Duke Street every time someone opened the door.
Evan's office door was closed, as always. He tried to hide from the incessant chatter of the nearby hallways and common rooms. He preferred to communicate with cameras.
Sara knocked quietly, not wanting to startle him or disturb his solitude.
"Hello?" he called with an air of irritation that made her smile.
They should stick him in the basement, she thought, where no one would find him.
"Hello?" he called again, before she pushed open the door. "Try advancing the film," he said. s"It usually solves the problem."
"I tried that."
"Sara? I forgot you were coming!" He laid down the camera he was repairing. "My apologies. It's first-year trauma day. You would have been the fifth one. Come in." He wiped his hands on a fine flannel cloth and stood up to greet her. "Where's the invalid?"
"Here," she said, patting the bulging bag at her side. "I don't know what the problem is. I just can't get it to focus. I took it to a man in Spain, but either he didn't understand me, or didn't want to do the job. He brushed me off."
"Probably had to meet a woman," Evan said. "Well, let me have a look."
Sara passed him her camera. She trusted his steady hands as much as the precision of his eye.
"Meter working?"
"I think so. It's a focus problem. This is what the shots look like." She pulled a handful of photographs from her pocket and placed them on Evan's desk.
He glanced up and said, "There are quite a few like that posted in the hallway."
Sara smiled. She remembered the exercises—intentional lack of focus, capturing fast-moving objects, long handheld exposures in the blackness of night. In those days, she was proud of her blur.
"Is Marisa still here?" she asked. The wild-haired woman had been her favourite instructor in first year. She had flickered and flashed like a silent movie—bright, except for the odd dark frame.
"Yeah. She surfaces," Evan said. "Can I see your other friends?"
"What?"
"I mean, your other lenses."
"You still don't get out much, do you?" she asked, handing him a telephoto and a wide angle.
"You mean out there? No. I can't stand the romantic drivel. It starts on the other side of that door and drips its way through every street of this city."
Sara smiled. For four years she and a friend had tried tirelessly to bring him to dinner and a late-night movie, but he refused. He was comfortable with his own world and uncommonly afraid of theirs.
"I've seen your work," he said.
"You have?"
"Sure."
She stared at him with surprise.
"I do read magazines!"
"Of course," she said. "So, what do you think?"
"It's good." He turned his head to look at her. "There's nothing wrong with your lenses."
"What?"
"Your camera is fine, Sara. I don't know what to suggest."
"Well, my editor's rejecting photos. I have to do something!"
"Have you considered seeing an optometrist?"
"You think the problem is with my eyes?"
"It's possible. People wear glasses."
"Yeah, but I thought..." She stood and reached for the photos she'd put on his desk.
"You thought you could blame the camera."
"Yeah, that's what I wanted to think."
"It can't hurt to have someone take a look. Sara, it's a good camera. Be patient with yourself. It'll all work out."
"Thanks for your time," she said. "I appreciate it." She reached for the camera he was holding out to her. Its familiar body was warm to her touch, but as foreign as a lover who had betrayed her. She buried it in her bag and slowly opened the office door. With her head down, she walked out to the street, past the young, able-eyed students who filled the halls.
By afternoon, Sara was staring at eye charts in a darkened room. She could read most of what she was asked to, but still the optometrist kept working.
"Anyone in your family wear glasses?" he asked.
"My father."
"Mine too," he said, as if it was a rare coincidence. Aiming for the back of her head, he grazed the skin of her cheek and ear. He was trying to bring her face closer to the wheel of lenses. "Is it still cool out there? It was brisk this morning."
"It's cool," Sara said. But not as cool as your hands. She was already as far forward as she could go. Any further would break the bridge of her nose.
"Alright. I'm just going to slide in a little closer here." His rolling chair squeaked when he moved it. "Now..." he leaned away from his instruments and glanced at the clipboard lying beside him on the counter, "Sara, I'm going to ask you not to blink. This will only take a minute—I just want to have a good look inside your eyes."
The young optometrist's chair was pulled up so close that his knees were touching hers. She tried not to blink. As if the two organs were connected, she also forgot to breathe.
After an unnerving moment of stillness, he pushed his chair back and asked, "Tell me again what you're seeing?"
Sara sighed and her stale breath created a haze around her. This was the third time he'd asked her to describe the sensation she was experiencing.
After more examinations under maximum magnification, he pushed the equipment away and shook his head. "I've never seen anything like this," he said. "I'd like you to see a specialist. You may need surgery."
click
A nervous surgeon slips and plays soccer with her eyeball.
click
Like a sloppy tailor, the man with the needle runs out of thread.
click
Prepared in a spicy sauce, she is offered two steaming eyeballs advertised as the specialty of the house.
As she walked home the wind was cold and fierce. She had forgotten that in Halifax rain could be horizontal.
Stepping into
