Lighting His Fire

He never asked me to pose or look to the right or left. He just took captures with his Hasselblad whenever he wanted. Wherever the light hit. Whenever there were no shadows. I was supposed to be his test subject. Another face for his budding photography portfolio. But somehow he had taken a liking to the way I either blended in with my surroundings or I stood out. Or so he says. I don't quite understand, but no one said creatives are meant to be 'understood' the linear way. 

He had taken me out for a jaunt around the city yet again to capture the skyscrapers and mismatched sandstone buildings. He decided it was 'right' to drag me along and take shots of my derpy face alongside glass windowpanes and traffic lights. Again, I don't quite understand but no one said creatives were meant to be ‘understood’ the linear way. 

I told him he better delete the ugly pictures as we stood beside the ANZ bank headquarters. Taking a cigarette from a pocket within his leather biker jacket, he looked down at me. “No pictures I have ever taken of you look bad. You’re beautiful”. 

I laughed. “My side profile is pretty bad, I know because I have taken side selfies and cringe”. 

Noticing him balancing the camera with one hand and the other clutching his nicotine, I dug my hand into his pants pocket and took out his lighter. We both watched as I flicked a warm glow onto the end of his cigarette and it lit into a smoky wisp dangling from his lips. I didn’t fail to notice his eyes, hot and ardous watching my every move. From my hand cupping the glow as I lit his cigarette, to catching his gaze to returning his lighter back into his pocket. 

Taking a side step behind my back, he wrapped one arm around me from the front and took a puff. With his mouth hovering next to my ear he whispered.

“I take photos of you not just because you’re beautiful but I want the memories of this. You, me and the city we’re in”.