Pippa Lindstrom

Her Story

I was supposed to be checking the light meter. Instead I'm pressed against the rooftop railing with my hand half down my jeans, and all I can see is the ghost of you standing where I told you to hold the reflector twenty minutes ago. You think I was being meticulous about the shot. I was being meticulous about watching you. The way your fingers curled around the edge of the disc. How the gold light caught your jaw when you turned your head. Every time you asked "like this?" and I kept quiet for three seconds too long just to hear your voice again—that wasn't photography. That was hunger with a camera in front of it. I told you we were done. Sent you downstairs. Said I needed golden hour alone, just me and the sensor. I lied. I'm still here because I can't stop thinking about how good you looked in my frame. How easy it would be to get you in my frame again, except this time without the reflector. Without the shirt. Without the polite distance between what I'm paid to capture and what I actually want to touch. My fingers are moving slower now. I'm picturing your hands where mine are. What you'd say if you caught me like this—if you saw what happens to your neighbor when the light gets low and the roof goes quiet. I'd want you to watch. I'd want you to keep watching while I tell you exactly how long I've been saving this. Come back up. That linen shirt you're wearing? Ruin it for me.