“Yes. You are.”
After we get done exploring the cemetery, we trudge back up the hill to hang out at the apartment for a bit, while we catch our breath. Magister is sprawled on the couch reading an Ursula LeGuin novel. He looks up when we walk in the door.
“Get some good pictures?”
“I did. I think I’ll get doubles when I get the film processed; that way you can have copies.”
The apartment smells like warm cookie dough. He must have been baking while we were gone.
It occurs to me that I still don’t have a single picture of Magister, nor does he have one of me. It’s been nearly two years, and we still don’t have pictures of each other. I’m not sure why not. Neither of us is exactly camera-shy, although neither of us seeks out opportunities to be photographed, either. It’s just something
