Twelve Thirty-Six

Beauty is always easy to see in fleeting moments, a brief second of clarity in a world shrouded in darkness. But to capture it, to freeze it, to treasure it, that takes something more than time. It even takes something more than talent.

For years I had hidden behind a shutter and a flash. I had captured thousands of moments in my viewfinder. I had seized secrets and unearthed souls. I had watched life unfold before me. But nothing prepared me for what I saw in her eyes.

They were deep emerald, rimmed in gold. In the center of each round deep pool there was a small black dot of Indian ink. Her face was tilted up, with a fringe of flame red bangs fanning across her forehead, casting shadows across her brows. Without make-up, she must have been radiant. Even with the pale powder and faint blush she seemed to glow with intensity. Eyeliner was light brown, blending with her full lashes and brown shadow. It kicked up the gold in those eyes.

She sat on the floor of my studio, watching the cloudy, melancholy sky through the skylight above us. She was clad in white and denim, with lose waves of red framing her face. I held my camera in my hands, just watching her. She shifted her eyes to me, and smiled.

My heart melted.

Never before had I taken her picture. It was what I did, my living, my passion, my life.

Until I met her.

When she was around, I couldn’t hold a camera. I couldn’t capture all that she was, all that she said without words. I knew that I couldn’t do her justice through a camera lens.

I had spent years studying the science of darkroom photography. I had spent a decade working as a professional photographer. I had spent a lifetime creating a passion for this art form, and in the end, my studies, my professionalism and my creativity couldn’t help me capture her.

“What are you thinking?” She asked me, her pink lips parting to reveal a line of pearly teeth.

I sighed, still holding the camera from my face. I hadn’t found the courage to raise it. I couldn’t bring myself to look through the viewfinder at this apparition before me.

“Lighting,” I lied.

But she shook her head, sending ribbons of gold flying beneath the bright studio lighting. “No,” she whispered, the corners of her lips tipping up. “I know that look. That’s the look you get when you doubt yourself.”

“I’m not doubting myself,” I muttered, tinkering with one of the lights. I faded it a bit, and watched the gold in her hair dull. I turned the light back up, watching her radiate once more. “I’m just thinking…”

She sighed, and tilted her head once again. Her chin tucked down, and green eyes peered from beneath her bangs. “West, you do this for a living. Why can’t you take my picture?” I shrugged, watching the way she held herself up. Her legs were tucked beneath her and off to one side, while her arms rested in her lap. “I trust you,” she whispered.

I knew she trusted me. She trusted me to make her look beautiful. But I knew that I couldn’t do her justice. This film, this camera, couldn’t capture what I saw. It couldn’t freeze my living, breathing belle. All this camera would do is flatten the image into something raw, something to be stared at and remarked on.

I felt that film would destroy that. Especially in my hand, I couldn’t do her justice.

“Ellie,” I whispered, bowing my head. “You can’t begin to imagine what you’re asking.”

“I want you to take my picture. That’s all.”

Once more, I shook my head. She wasn’t asking me to take her picture. She was asking me to reveal her soul. I knew I couldn’t do it, I knew I couldn’t expose her the way she wanted me to.

“No,” I whispered. “You’re not asking me to take your picture. You’re asking me to put your soul on paper, and I can’t do that.”

Once more, she smiled. The tips of pink lips curved, revealing the edge of those pearly whites again. She shook her head, closing her eyes. The simple movement caused the sea of red to shimmer over her shoulders and fall across her cheeks. In that moment, she was as beautiful as I had ever seen her.

I raised my camera to my face and peered through the viewfinder at her. Her eyes were still closed, and her silken hair still clung to her pale pink cheek. I snapped the picture.

The sound of the shutter brought her back from wherever she had gone. When she opened her eyes she tilted her head slightly, sending a cascade of red over the emerald shirt she wore. I snapped another picture, capturing the dreamy look in her eye as she smiled as though she had a secret.

“West,” she whispered, leaning back to lie on the ground. “Make me beautiful.”

She drew her knees up, and folded her hands over her stomach. Her hair fanned out beneath her in a tumble, and she gazed up at the skylight. “I don’t need to make you beautiful,” I replied, watching her through the viewfinder.

This instrument that had frightened me only moments ago seemed to be just another appendage, something that made the world around me vanish. All that I saw was Ellie.

She glanced to me, through half closed lids. I snapped the photograph just as she smiled. I caught the glint of love in her emerald depths, I caught the slight curl of her lips, I caught the peaches and cream aura of her skin; I caught the beauty that was Ellie. That picture was quite possibly the best I’ve ever taken.

Two years ago. It feels like only yesterday. Two years ago, today, that picture was taken. It still sits on my desk, framed in silver. Her green eyes bore into me every moment that I sit here, watching me, waiting for me to come to her. That smile holds a secret I can’t name. It’s my own personal Mona Lisa. Her scattering of flame red bangs created a sense of urgency in the photograph. But the calm of her eyes waylaid all thoughts of rush and stress.

I tapped my pen on the ledger before me. All my life had been disorganized; it was the creative side of me. When I met Ellie she had been a professional organizer, and from the moment she stumbled into my studio of disarray she had adopted me. Right away, she taught me how to keep track of my clients and the numbered rolls I used for them. After that she organized my studio and helped me to find myself in my belongings. In turn, I taught her how to let go, how to live.

It took her months to ask me to take her picture, but never once had I asked her if I could. I couldn’t see her through a camera lens. With her it was always the whole picture. It wasn’t just about her, and her alone. It was about her and her surroundings. You didn’t know Ellie until you saw her in real life.

The moment I fell in love with her still hits me every once in awhile. For a moment, I can’t picture anything but her, and I can’t breathe. Then she smiles at me, and the world comes into focus.

We were standing in the park, between two large oak trees, looking out at the lake before us. She stood with her shoulder pressed to my arm, even though she was slightly shorter. Light bounced off the water, reflecting the sky. It bounced off the water and reflected her. She glanced up at me, that red hair ablaze with radiance.

She was staring up at me, and then she whispered, “You make me feel beautiful…”

And for a long moment, I couldn’t breathe. My world fell out from underneath me. All I could see was her. Then she smiled at me, and my world came into focus.

Loving her was like a dream that I couldn’t wake up from. It wasn’t real. I wasn’t there, with her, and she wasn’t there with me. Neither of us existed. Every time we touched I was taken from myself and delivered to Oz.

I rode a tornado there, and when I landed I was in the midst of something magical. Loving her was a tornado. A feat of nature, a mystery shrouded in questions without answers. She was a feat of nature. But she wasn’t a disaster. No, Ellie was a miracle. She was a rainbow, the first flower of spring. She was beautiful and rare, she was… She was…

She was Ellie.

On my desk sat that picture of her, those red bangs creating a frame within a frame. Her emerald eyes were rimmed in gold, and her lips were curved up ever so slightly. She watched me from where she sat, knowing far more than I would ever dream of knowing.

I turned away, looking back down at the ledger before me. I had three clients lined up this afternoon. My 12:15 was Sarah Jameson, a woman I had known a million years ago. She had once been a model who opted out to have a family, and now she was looking for a way back in. She was asking me to do her headshots, in hopes that she could get signed again.

But she’d had three children, and the world of modeling was harsh and brash and cruel. I doubted that she could make it back in. The least I could do was give her that chance. The words she spoke in her message haunted me.

“West, it’s Sarah… I was thinking. I need new headshots, and I thought of you. I was wondering, I mean, you’re the only photographer I know that can… Well, West… You’re the only one who can make me feel beautiful.”

Those words, the same words she had spoken to me. They haunted me, echoing in my soul. When I closed my eyes I saw her smile, I saw that frame of bangs, I saw those green depths painted with gold. When I opened my eyes they found that picture without thinking. I didn’t have to search for it. And I didn’t have to see it.

The doorbell rang, and I closed my ledger. Outside the door stood a ravishing blonde in tailored blue jeans and a black shirt. She had a hanging garment bag slung over her shoulder. “Sarah,” I said, with a smile. “You look lovely!”

“Thanks, West,” she said with a return smile. “You look good too!”

I pushed the door open and stepped aside so that she could come in. Once inside, I closed the door and turned to smile at her. “What kind of shots are you looking for, Sarah?” I asked, motioning toward the inner circle of the studio. I had my cameras and lights set up to the left, my desk and office to the right. Up the stairs to my right and behind the door was my living area.

Sarah moved into the studio, glancing around at the various fabrics hanging in curtains before the cameras. “I was hoping for something dramatic, something fun, something young…”

“Something young,” I echoed. She nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” I glanced to her bag. “What’d you bring?”

“Um, I brought a gown, and some shirts.”

We wandered over to my desk, and sat down. “Well, lets see what we can do for you.” I pulled out my proofs to show her some backgrounds. “Here’s some of the headshots I’ve done for people. Tell me what you like…”

She reached over and picked up the silver frame. My heart slowed and I couldn’t breathe. “She’s beautiful, West. Who is she?”

“Ellie Nelson,” I replied, reaching for the picture. But she took a step back and turned away. “Come on, Sarah. Give me the picture.”

“She really is lovely,” Sarah said, staring at the photograph. “Is she a model? She doesn’t look familiar.”

“No,” I whispered, sitting down in the chair behind my desk. “She’s not a model.”

“You took this picture?”

“Yes,” I replied, resting my head on my open palm. She set it back in its spot, and I glanced at it. Gold rimmed eyes stared back. That smile taunted me.

Sarah sank down in the soft black leather chair before the desk and said, “Can you make me look like that?”

I shook my head. “No, Sarah. I’ll never take a picture like that again,” I sighed, closing my eyes. “I can’t.”

For a long moment neither of us spoke, we just sat in silence, lost in our thoughts. I lost myself in that tornado.

Spinning…

Flying…

Falling…

Soaring…

Crashing.

“What happened, West?” Sarah asked, her voice soft.

I shook my head. “Why don’t we get started?” I asked, rising to my feet. She nodded, and didn’t ask any other questions.

She stood before me, wearing a thirties inspired evening gown of blue silk. Her back was to me and her long honey colored hair spilled over her shoulders and down her bare skin. Red lipstick accentuated her bronze skin, and her pearl colored teeth. She turned slightly, a demure look on her face, and narrowed her heavily shadowed eyes.

Snap.

With someone as well trained as Sarah, photography wasn’t an art; it was a click of a button. Sarah was a professional, she knew how to stand, how to look, how to tilt her head, how to hold herself.

She pivoted and pulled her hand up to the back of her neck. Her lips pursed, and she bent slightly.

Snap.

She turned to face me fully, crisscrossing her arms over her chest and draping her hands over her shoulders. She tilted her head back and revealed her long, slender neck.

Snap.

This was brainless work. I just clicked when she stopped moving. She was gorgeous, but she was made to be gorgeous. That was what you needed to be in this line of work. She was gorgeous within that camera frame, inside the viewfinder.

I didn’t need to see the world around her. I didn’t need the surrounding to mesh with her; I didn’t need to see her interact with anyone. I didn’t see her anymore. I saw the model in the camera, but I didn’t see Sarah Jameson.

Snap.

“Where’d you go, West?” Sarah asked, her eyes narrowing.

I let the camera slide from my face, and I dropped my eyes to the floor. “Nowhere,” I replied, shifting my gaze to the large bay windows of the studio.

“Well, you certainly weren’t here…” Sarah said, coming closer to me. As her hand brushed my arm, I vanished.

In the dark of my bed, I stared up at the ceiling. It had been an incredible day, followed by an incredible night. We had spent the evening wrapped in each others arms, lying in a hammock on the beach, watching the sun set into the water. At the moment that it touched the ocean, I could almost hear the hiss.

She leaned over and kissed my neck, breathing lightly against my shoulder. I kissed her forehead, holding her close.

Long after night had fallen, we laid beneath the stars. I wanted to fall asleep with her in my arms, but I knew we never could. It was only a matter of time before our romantic evening became a buffet for mosquitoes.

So, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling Ellie around me. I could smell her perfume, hear her breath. Everything she was surrounded me, filling me.

The phone rang.

“Hello?” I asked, glancing to the clock. The green LCD burned like a candle in the dark of a window. 12:34.

“Yes, is this Westley Barr?” a man asked.

“Yes, this is he. Who’s this?” 12:34.

“My name is Sam Wright. I work at Memorial General. You are the contact on one Miss Eleanor Nelson’s medical card. Did you know her?”

Did I know her? “Yes, I know her…” 12:34.

“Sir, perhaps you should come down here…”

Why the past tense? 12:35.

“We’re going to need you to identify the body…”

Body? 12:35.

“There was an accident on the interstate…”

He faded out, and faded back in.

“Semi jackknifed…” 12:35.

Once more, he faded out, and back in.

“Died instantly…” 12:36.

“Sarah, you have to leave,” I said, turning away. She didn’t move. “I need to be alone, Sarah.”

“Why, West? What happened?” she asked. “Where’s Ellie?”

“Nowhere. It doesn’t matter. Please, go.”

But Sarah didn’t move for a long moment. “West, you can’t hide from her forever. Why don’t you call her?”

“I can’t call her,” West whispered.

“I’m sure that she still loves you…”

“Sarah. I can’t just call her. Go home.”

“Why? Where is she?”

“Jasper.”

“Cemetery?” Sarah asked, incredulous. “Oh, West…”

I sank into my chair, my eyes finding that picture, perched on the edge of my desk. Those green eyes burning with love, gold framing the Indian ink of the pupil, the red hair contrasting the calm that radiated from her skin. I stared at the picture as Sarah gathered her belongings and packed her clothes. I heard the door close, and I tilted my head back. My gaze fell on the other side of the desk. There sat a digital clock with green LCD.

12:36.