"Welcome to the darkroom," she said.

That was just what it was – a dark room, lit only dimly by the glow of reddish lights on the far left wall. Strings seemed to hang suspended in mid-air, but upon closer observation one could see that they were attached to the ceiling. Photographs clipped to the strings swayed gently in the breeze of the air-conditioning vent above like clothes hanging on a clothesline.

"For a while, I had an ad in the newspaper, saying that I would take pictures of anyone for any occasion, at a fairly low rate. I didn't have fancy lighting or a beautiful backdrop – I would just drive around with him and tell him that when he saw a place he would like me to photograph him at, he should yell at me to stop the car. Then we would take some pictures – a lot or a little, depending on how the two of us were feeling the spot – and get back in the car and drive some more. I tried not to charge my clients much for it, because it was my pleasure to take the pictures – I just needed a little bit of money to compensate for the purchase of my camera. Sometimes, when the pictures turned out really well, I would even pay them for the honor of taking their pictures. There's nothing more wonderful than looking through the lens of a camera and seeing art before the picture is even taken," she said.

She walked along the walls to see the pictures hanging from the strings. The amber light made it difficult to see the faces and places imprinted on the paper.

"Black-and-white photographs are the easiest," she explained. "All you have to do is develop the print, stop the image development by stop bath, remove its light-sensitivity, and wash it off to remove any processing chemicals. But easy isn't what I care about. What I care about is beauty.

"A black-and-white photograph is so raw, so sensitive. Want to highlight someone's cheekbones? Rub Vaseline on them – the flash makes them shine and catch the light, so to create an obvious contrast between the cheekbones and the rest of the face. You can't do stuff like that in a color photograph because the contrast isn't as glaring. Black-and-white photographs make your whites look so white and your darks look so dark. Pale skin looks almost angelic in the light of the flash. There's nothing more beautiful than the simplicity present in a black-and-white photograph."

I put my hand up as though I was about to pull one of them down, but retracted, fearing that I would destroy her art.

"It's okay," she said, sensing my desire to observe her creations. "Those have been drying after their bath for months now."

I reached up and pulled down one of the pictures. I walked over to stand directly under the safelight, so I could see everything as best as possible in the dark of the darkroom. Suddenly I saw what she meant about the beauty of black-and-white photographs.

His face was off-center slightly, and he was leaning up against a wall with a spray-painted mural of some abstract design. He had on a shirt and tie, but the tie was slightly loosened and the first button was unbuttoned on the shirt. His mouth was closed, a straight line that gave off a feeling of muted desire. Despite the lack of color in the photograph, I knew his hair was honey-colored – the way the light hit it gave away the natural highlights of both brown and blonde. But what caught me the most were his eyes.

They were shrouded in darkness by his brow, which although it wasn't exactly furrowed seemed to be knit slightly in frustration. They seemed to be looking straight through me, seeing everything I was in a single glance. I felt like he knew my hopes, my fears, my dreams, my wants, my life story, my sudden and deep desire to know what color his eyes were, because no matter how hard I tried to get any sort of indication of color from them, they seemed to be all the colors at once.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"Some guy I met at the Coffee Shop. He ordered a French vanilla latte, and when he was about to leave I asked him if I could take his picture. He didn't seem weirded out at all, like I thought he would. In fact, he seemed kind of happy about it."

"What was his name?"

"I dunno," she said. "I asked him for it. I said that I could make doubles of the pictures and mail him the copies if he gave me his contact information. He declined. I was going to give him money for the pleasure of letting me take his pictures, but he refused it. He wanted to give me money for the pleasure of being my model, but I refused it. So we left the coffee shop that day. He had a latte in his hands, I had his film in mine."

"But you never got his name?"

"Nope. I think he looks kind of like a Sean, though, don't you? Spelled the Irish way."

I smiled at the picture. "Can I keep it?" I asked.

She shrugged and said, "Sure. I made doubles anyway just in case he ever wandered in here and asked for his pictures."

I pulled out my wallet and stuck the picture inside, behind all of my bills. I resolved that if I ever met him, I'd check to see what color his eyes were.

It was a Saturday morning, and I felt like I needed to get out. I also felt like I needed some energy, even though I'd just woken up after sleeping for at least twelve hours. For one reason or another, my body felt more tired after sleeping for so long than it would have had I only slept half that time. I needed a pick-me-up.

After a hot shower and throwing on some clothes, I plopped myself in the driver's seat of my car and drove down to the Coffee Shop. A regular cup of coffee just wouldn't do it for me today – I needed a mocha cappuccino.

The Coffee Shop was just like any other coffee shop, except for the mural spray-painted along the white brick back wall. I loved the vibe I got from the place – artsy, earthy, and wholesome, even though I know that the coffee it was ingesting into my body was anything but the latter.

There was no one else there – everyone else must have already had his coffee by one in the afternoon. The worker behind the counter looked thoroughly unimpressed and bored. I ordered my mocha cappuccino, sat down at a table for two, and pulled out her book.

Over the course of twenty minutes, a few people entered the shop and bought various late breakfasts – a tall black coffee, extra cream and sugar, and a bagel with veggie cream cheese; a cinnamon hot chocolate with whipped cream; a chocolate croissant and iced coffee. I became accustomed to the squeak of the door when it opened, and after a while, I didn't look up anymore when someone came in.

"Hi there," came a masculine voice from the counter. He wasn't talking to me, so I didn't look up.

"What can I get for you?"

"Uh, just a French vanilla latte. Medium, please."

The sounds of pouring coffee, the smell of vanilla, the loud sort of ripping sound from whipped cream being taken out of its can.

"Here you go," said the worker. I heard the man rummage through his wallet and pull out a couple of bills, the ching of the cash register, the "Thank you," as he picked up his coffee, the footsteps as he came to find a table. I absently noticed them stop.

"Excuse me," he said. His voice was much closer now – I looked up and realized he was talking to me.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked.

I stared at him for a second in complete and utter disbelief and confusion. Slowly, I reached into my purse and pulled out my own wallet. The picture I had taken from my friend's darkroom six months ago was still behind all of my bills. I held the very wrinkled photograph up next to his face.

"My name's Sean," he said.

"Spelled the Irish way?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, laughing. He pointed at the chair opposite me and said, "Mind if I sit here?"

"Sure, go ahead."

He sat down and we just looked at each other for a while.

His eyes were blue.