Lane closed his eyes as the cool liquid slid down his throat. He couldn't help but imagine the long column of Greg's throat, the smooth movement of his muscles when he'd downed a whole bottle of water after the firemen had left that day.
Lane's heart did that funny tripping thing in his chest again and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter until all he could see were bright spots. His heart went back to normal and the bats in his stomach seemed to settle. Opening his eyes and setting the water down, he headed back to the darkroom to check on his prints.
He glanced over all the prints, studiously avoiding the bad ones, before finally settling on the first one. It was almost dry. He cleaned up the room a bit, disposed of the chemicals, wiped down his table and then carefully pulled the print down and left the room again.
The print was perfect. He carried it out into the kitchen and sat down on one of the stools at the counter. He pored over the picture, looking for any imperfection and when he couldn't find any, he finally smiled. This was the shot that would convince Greg that the photo shoot wasn't a complete waste of time.
Greg was standing over the stove, an intense look of concentration on his face as he tilted the pan and set the contents ablaze. It was black and white so you couldn't see the colors of the flame, or the green of Greg's eyes, but he had a digital version for that. You could see the single drop of sweat rolling down the side of Greg's face, the taut stretch of the muscle in his forearm, and the skilled way he tilted the pan to get the gas burner to light the alcohol. |
