charming and poignant, capturing a kinship between two animals that is rarely caught among humans. Or perhaps it’s that I have been so rarely playful myself.
I’ve spent endless hours with it, and still, every time I see it something blooms inside me.
But I didn’t rush in here to fawn over his art.
I nod toward the screen. “This is nearly identical to that photo of Kaila.”
“I’m not sure she’d appreciate being compared to a wild animal, but go on.”
“Not the leopard itself,” I sigh. “The composition. The angle, the way you’ve framed it, the direction of the light. Do you see it?” It’s his style epitomized in both shots.
“Are you worried I plagiarized myself? I promise I’m not going to issue a complaint.”
I shoot him a look that says would you please understand me? Sometimes I find that works as well as explaining myself, if not better.
This time it seems to do the trick. “All right, I see what you’re seeing,” he says. “This shot is much better than any on that camera you’re holding though.”
Exactly my point. “So what’s the difference?” I’ve had mentors ask me similar questions. I always assumed they knew the answer when they asked and just wanted me to find it for myself, but now I wonder if they just realized the only person who can really say what’s missing from a piece when it’s that near perfection is the person who sees it best of all, the person who saw it from scratch before it was a moment or a story or art. When it was raw and living.
Hendrix straightens, and I follow like I’m tied to him with an invisible string because I know he knows the answer, and I’m eager to have the mystery solved.
“Easy,” he says. “My subject today wasn’t the most fascinating thing in the vicinity.”
It’s a loaded statement, one that has me rejoicing and melting and panicking all at the same time. It’s a relief that he doesn’t like that twit, which isn’t a fair thing to call her at all since she has not demonstrated any reason to be labeled as such except to exist. And it’s exactly what was missing from the photo. It’s a breakthrough when a person can identify the flaw so succinctly, and always deserves to be acknowledged as such. Which makes me want to give him a high five or a fist bump or whatever it is that’s the current way to express congratulations. Makes me feel almost playful enough to do so.
But his answer was also pointed, and while I’m quick to self-doubt, I’m perceptive enough to know what he’s saying, and now I can no longer cling to any confusion about why he took this class. He’s here for me. He took this class for me.
“Camilla…” It’s the same way he said my name the other night at the bar, an invitation and a warning that whatever follows will be hard for me to hear. A pause to let me decide if I can bear it.
Frankly, I’m not sure that I can. It’s a lot to process. And the clock is ticking in the back of my head. Two more students to get through. No time to acknowledge this. No desire to deal.
“I have to get back to the others,” I say dismissively. I hand him his camera and, like I did at Nightsky, I head for the door.
He follows this time, though. Because that’s where he’s supposed to go, not because he’s chasing after me, yet it feels like being chased, and while I wanted to get away from him that night, I don’t feel that desperation today. Turns out I sort of like the feeling of being chased, a surprise to me since I dreaded anytime Frank came after me. Different circumstances, of course. Frank rewarded me with beatings when I was caught, convincing me I deserved it because how dare I run? It would be understandable if I had permanent PTSD from it. I definitely did for quite some time. Perhaps that’s why I’m always running from lovers who I am absolutely sure will not follow.
Hendrix, though.
Is it possible I like that he’s come for me? Is it possible that I could enjoy what would be waiting if he caught me? Is it possible that I could try?
I’m not sure. There’s a hopeful buoyancy in my limbs, though, as I conference with the last two, and a smile dresses my face as I wrap up the class and give