bellows fully extended.
He lifted it to his forehead, not touching it against the skin, but almost. He leaned forward and dropped his chin. He then shut his eyes.
“This is what I want, I think,” he said.
I was seeing insecurity, doubt and a smidge of pretentiousness. But I felt respect for him, he had come a long way. I, too, was undecided. What should I tell him?
“I can do this,” I said, looking through the viewfinder and trying to sound noncommittal. I adjusted focus.
Silence happened then. Him — frozen in his position. And me wondering — wanting to be him just for a split second, get into his head, not that I was hoping for much help, once I was there. At the time I was still convinced every outcome must have a beginning, a trigger, perhaps. Reason should triumph over knee-jerk, or at least provide a fallback plan, something that will make you feel pampered when all else fails.
“Take it already,” he whispered.
All of sudden I remembered when one of my parents, I forget which, was holding me over a still and a spellbindingly deep body of water at 6.13 pm on a Saturday in August, then dropped me, in an attempt to teach me how to swim. I had been given detailed verbal explanations before and an illustrated manual. Obviously, I survived.
“How often do you hold a banana against your forehead, about half an inch apart, when you want your portrait taken?” I asked him, then pressed the shutter release and felt a sudden and intoxicating sense of relief, the one you have when you know the deed has been done.
