Young Writers Society

Emily dragged me away to take pictures together and interrupted the moment. Ignoring Zeke's irritation, I flashed a smile and silently mouthed my response. “Maybe you can take some?” He nodded, trying not to let his frustration show. She gave him her vintage Polaroid. He eyed it, slightly unimpressed, before snapping a few candid shots.

Once she left satisfied, he suggested we go to the darkroom to show me his photography equipment. With fingertips touching, he led me from the party to my car. I drove a silver Toyota Prius with a tailfin. It wasn’t as showy as others on campus, but I loved it. I wondered if it was too conceited for Zeke until he asked to drive it.

I tossed him the keys, and they jingled as he grasped them in one hand. As he started the engine, soft music played in the background. He rubbed his hand over mine, his jaw clenching. I saw through his attempt to hide it, even though he smiled when I looked at him.

The journey to the art building was primarily silent. Why did he hold the wheel so tightly with his other hand? Why had he had not told me much about his life or himself? Was he hiding something?

Upon entering the building, we ventured down an unfamiliar corridor. We entered a small room, and he flipped a switch. The room became densely lit in red tones.

“This is a darkroom. It is where photographers develop film.” He walked up to the table and held up an underdeveloped one.

Wordlessly, I followed him around and watched him work. I took an older camera off the countertop, admiring its weathered shutter. I turned the camera over and noticed the cracked lens.

“What happened?” I gestured the camera towards him.

“…That one is well-loved.” He glanced away. “I need to get it fixed.”

“What makes it ‘well-loved’?”

“Someone I love gave it to me.” He put gloves on, rinsed a photo in the tub, removed the gloves, and dried his hands on a paper towel.

“…Oh…” I looked away from him.

“Oh shit. No. Not like that. It was a gift from… my… grandfather Benji. He had somehow saved up money. During one Christmas, he surprised me with it.” I could feel a melancholy under his I-don’t-care attitude for the first time. His facial features slacked as he rubbed his hand through his hair. He allowed me to put on the fox makeup, but it ended up being smudged. Lost in thought, his distant eyes hinted at reliving a memory. A small half-smile fell on his lips, reminiscing in joy. It reminded me of Isadora. When I thought of my memories with her, the same smile came.

“I would love to meet Benji one day.”

“…I would…I would like that.”

A silence fell between us. He turned to the photographs in another stop bath. I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands. I would have loved to analyze the tatted lines on his skin like a curation in a museum, but I had yet to catch clear glimpses. From what I gathered, some were tribal and archaic. Others were geometrical. There might have been script on his arms, but I couldn't read it. Each design transitioned into a smoky haze on his hands. The black ink against my ivory skin would be a stunning work of art.

I watched his hands work with the equipment. My body craved to be smothered in them. I wondered how it would feel to release control as he did the same. The freedom when he kissed me felt like a tethered balloon cut loose. I was prepared to reach the stratosphere. Perhaps I got more drunk than I planned…

“Do you want me to show you how to do this?” His question made me jump out of my fantasies.

I nodded. I did not dare speak for fear my voice would reveal my nervousness.

He gestured to the equipment. Step-by-step, he walked me through, exposing the film to a developer, what the stop bath did, and all about a photographic fixer. He casually explained how to wash prints to remove excess chemicals and began to move and hang photos onto a wire suspended above the counter. Before his spirited lecture about photography, I never really appreciated the simplicity and complexities of taking photos, positioning the camera at the perfect angle, or how light, shadows, effects, and different techniques could magnify the beauty in a picture. He effortlessly described each piece of equipment, and I admired his passion and knowledge. His excitement about his craft made me think of my love for painting. It was inspiring and yet sexy.

As we worked side by side, moving the photos, he leaned in, whispering in my ear with a playful grin. “You know, I can’t help but think how fucking incredible you look as a deer. You’d bring any hunter to their knees.”

My cheeks flushed, but I didn’t back away. Instead, I looked at him with a glimmer in my eyes. I was up for whatever mischief he had planned.

“You clean up pretty damn well as a fox, too. But you better be careful, or I might just hunt you down.”

“Don’t you think a fox would hunt a deer first?” Despite the gleam in his eye, I trusted him too much to perceive it as sinister. I couldn't comprehend why I did, as he remained a mysterious creature who had me enchanted.

He laughed as I stared, awe-struck, and our gaze didn’t falter for a few seconds. We had undeniable chemistry, and our desire continued to grow. Underneath the physical attraction, we had a deep connection between our love for art. Our mediums were different, but the happiness they brought us and the passion we felt for our work were ideals not everyone appreciated or had.

He pulled me closer, his lips brushing against my neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses. My breath hitched, and I gently lifted my fingers to trace a path up his arm, his body subtly shuddering. We were dancing on a dangerous edge, and I couldn’t bring myself to care.