I really know nothing about Swan. As I climb a flight of stairs to a space labeled Studio X on a buzzer box below, I imagine that he must be rich. I can’t stop a series of candy colored snapshots from presenting themselves as I get near Swan’s studio door. He is smiling and blowing out the candles on a birthday cake while I stand at his side; he is astride an elephant wearing Khaki shorts on our fifth anniversary trip to Africa; he is holding a camera and beckoning me.
By the time I reach the landing, the fantasy snapshots have begun to overlap and get muddy and a few of them include Ben, then my father. I wish I had insisted Swan stick to our plan and meet me at the restaurant where I could be poised and ready to tell him about myself and this past four days. The studio door is ajar.
