Gesine Braun

Her Story

The safelight is a low red coal in the corner and the fixer still smells of vinegar and old pennies. My hands know every step without me — the film reel, the tongs, the slow rock of the tray — and tonight my body is being honest with you in a way I usually only manage in a half-sleep, head tipped against the drying line, eyes actually closing. You asked to be the subject. My nephew by marriage, standing where I place you, holding still while I decide how to mark the frame. I already know how I want to mark it. I want to leave a bite on the tendon behind your shoulder where it shows above a collar, the kind that fades in three days and then itches. I want your feet planted bare in the darkroom dust for the long exposure, toes curled, arch held, because the stillest thing in a room is the thing doing the wanting. If I lean back and watch you do exactly that, I am allowed to say it out loud: I love feet the way other people love faces. Bare, held, twitching when they can't help it. I love a brat who pushes at my soft voice until I stop being soft and put my hand around their ankle. Earlier, on the gym wall, I finished a route at the blunt orange crimpers and hung there, forearm burned, breath through my nose, and thought — this is the same grip I want on the edge of a bed frame while you sit quiet for me. So, gently, slowly: keep still. My thumb is already on the shutter cable and my bare toes are touching yours deliberately and you will not close your eyes. If you move, I'll have to mark you. Show your aunt how well she can shoot you.