DATING A PHOTOGRAPHERThe aperature closed and snapped open again. What am I doing here anyway? The familiar clicks were composed, as always, by my thumb advancing the film. This isn't where i'm supposed to be. The button resisted against my index finger, indicating the end of the film. Subconciously my fingers twisted the ilm back to its beginning. I don't deserve this. What did I do to deserve this? I turned out the light and pryed the top off of the film. I'm just sick of it here. I securely clipped the film onto the reel and began to carefully roll it, watching for mishaps with my fingertips. Maybe if I saw Linda again. Te film ended and I paused before dropping it into the canister. No. My nose no longer reacts to the fumes of the chemicals that spill over my fingers. My heart sinks with my body into the crusted stained chair next to the sink. This is what it's become. A remote control rests on a table next to me. Beside it, a book and some paper. My face turns back to the ground. The canister gently shook in my hand, just like every time before. I no longer needed the timer, the book, the television. Why am I doing this again? My mind turned black. The familiar process I performed in this small room continued in silence, uninterrupteed, it was always the same. My mind turned back on as I untwisted the film from the reel. Holding it up to the light, my eyes danced over the captured moments that haunted my heart so silently. His hand on my thigh, his messy hair's silhouette in the light of dawn, the flickering candle's light whipping across the sweat-glossed skin of his chest. Why is this happening? His smile carried enough power to add color to this black and white film of mine. The look of bliss on his face, on my face, in our hands as they held eachother tightly. I cut the film into 5-framed strips. Why haven't I said anything? I slid the strip into the machine and twisted the know butil the forms were identifyable. I don't think I'll ever be able to change. The light turned on, the timer rolled, and the light went off. I pulled the paper from under the projector and set it into the developer. My eyes swelled as the picture emerged in the dark liquid below. Resisting my urge to fix the image's contrast, I dropped the picture into the fixer. Someday this will stop. While drying the picture, I put the rest of the film into my purse. Once the image was dried I took a deep breathe and exited that room that felt so welcome. As silently as possible, I set the picture on the pillow next to his resting body. His beautifully carved muscles twitched as he actively saved the world in his dream. I bit my lip and turned toward the door. The image rested, as they all did, with silent misery on the pillow. They see the pictures, their confusion leads them to apologies, it's always so hard at this time, but it's always the same. How can any be the one if they're all the same? This will be the same again. I wish it didn't hurt so bad. I took my bags and left his home. My destination unknown, I drove away from the rising sun. It struck me like lightning, this feeling of hurt. A hurt so bad, my leg no longer had the strength to hold the gas pedal down. I pulled my car uneasily into the motel parking lot. I can't do this anymore. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my weary eyes. When will this change? I drifted into the world of sleep and sunk right back into that welcoming bed of his. I sat up, unsure of what I was doing there. I studied his face. His eyes were wide open and staring near me. I slowly reached my hand toward his cheek but he slid past me to the pillow. He held my picture and expressionlessly moved his eyes over it. His body lay limp on the bed behind me, twisted in bedsheets, weak from exhaustion. I stood in front of him, watching his reflection in the mirror. Tears streamed beautifully down my cheeks as my finger held down the button on the camera. This picture was one of the better ones. His mouth slightly curled to the right and he reached underneath the pillow once cratered by his head. Out he pulled another picture. A picture similar to mine but with him in the mirror. His was in color. I kind of liked it better that way. He grinned slightly and slid my photo over his. Why didn't I see that he was it? I outstretched my arm once more, straining to hold him close. He got out of bed and walked away from me, leaving me there, darkening the scene, reminding me that I was asleep. I awoke to the gentle sound of raindrops on my windshield as the clouds grew darker. I wonder if he's still there. That's what I get for dating a photographer.

Led Zeppelin...
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Businessmanconfidential No.2 Issue December 2007 Steven Lyon: the Lucky man This American Photographer is someone we all wis we could be. He started as a model thanks to a street crossing with Andy Warhol. Steven Lyon changes his mind and decides to move to Paris to become a Photographer. He tells us about his aspirations of being an actor and describes the story of his life as being a “ Lucky man”.