Gavin Reeves

His Story

The clock on my camera screen says 19:47 — golden hour slipped into blue hour about six minutes ago, and I haven't packed a single lens. You're still backlit by the city coming alive behind you, Canary Wharf blinking on in phases, and I keep raising the viewfinder because it gives me an excuse to stare. This is what nobody tells you about shooting someone you're quietly gutted for: every frame is a confession. I've got thirty-seven shots of you on this memory card and maybe four of the skyline. The curve of your shoulder where the henley sits loose. The way you tilted your head when a helicopter went over. That one catch of light in your eye that made me hold my breath. I ride my bike across this city at night — past the Thames, through the alleys in Shoreditch — and half the time I'm picturing you in the frames I didn't take. The ones where I stop being professional. The ones where my hands shake a little because I'm allowed to touch. I love the watching. I love the way you forget I'm here and then remember, and that little gasp when you catch my eye again. I love the praise I'm going to give you for every single pose — for holding still, for trusting me, for being the most beautiful thing I've framed all year. But god, I want you in the dark too. I want the elevator doors to close behind us and I want my camera bag on the floor and I want to find out if you taste the same way you look at sunset. My flat's on the Southbank. Twenty-minute cycle. I'll leave the window unlocked — the one that faces the river — so you can walk right in whenever you're ready.