Choose Me: a novella Read Online Free Page B

the other side of the glass. And he shook his head and walked by, watching her from the corner of his eye until he couldn’t see her anymore.
    Later that night she called him and, extending an olive branch, took him out for drinks at the Honey Pot. Both of them were car eful with their words, doling them out in small amounts as if afraid of going too far. It took several pints of ale to drown the brittleness that had come to the surface, and even then she hated that she’d even brought up race. Something felt off-kilter now, as though some unseen scale had tipped and they would have to work even harder than before to keep themselves from sliding off.
                 
     
     

 
    chapter six
    Wishing I Had a Photograph
    The first time he photographed her she was lying in his bed telling him about her family and her life in Philadelphia in a vague, far-off tone of voice. She wasn’t watching him as he assembled the tripod and set up the digital camera he’d finally saved up enough money to buy. Her eyes were fixed on some unseen point, and they gli stened as though she might cry. Then she blinked quickly and he wondered if he’d imagined the film of sadness in her eyes.
    That day she’d shown up at his place unannounced, which was uncharacteristic of her. Normally, she called to let him know that she was on her way. She didn’t like the way his neighbors looked at her whenever she crossed the courtyard. She told him she often felt cold waves of hostility from them.
    “They make me feel like an intruder every time I meet them on the stairs or in the garden,” she’d said one night.
    At first he thought she was imagining it but he’d once seen the way his downstairs neighbor glared at Jessica so he didn’t question her concerns. He thought his neighbors were just reacting to her being a stranger. They’d been a little hostile to him too when he first moved in. It had taken several months before they’d even begun greeting him on the stairs.
    But that day something had happened and Jessica wouldn’t open up about it.  Instead, she spoke as if walking through an impenetrable fog. Her face was cold and flat, the expressionless surface of a lake that surely hid dreams and demons. And he wanted to capture this stillness because he knew it was temporary. He’d once read that Monet believed artists should never stage scenes, that true art was in itself the capturing of one moment with all its hairline flaws and flights of perfection, and this was what Chris wanted – to capture the stillness of Jessica’s face and how it slowly evolved through the myriad of emotions churning inside of her.
    Watching her through the safe distance of his viewfinder he saw her as if through a looking glass into another world. Without knowing it, she’d positioned herself in such a way that she never looked more surreal and perfect. The slope of her cheekbones was sharp, the curve of her neckline sleek and attenuated as is dipped and fell into shadow on her clavicle. She was so beautiful: her body voluptuous, yet strong like a statue he’d once seen in a mus eum.  He knew that if he traced his fingers along the soft flesh of her inner thigh he’d meet the steely resistance of muscle beneath.
    She raised her hand to her mouth and he clicked the first shot, capturing the slight sheen of moisture on her lips and the shadowy hint of her tongue. She closed her eyes. What was she thinking, what was going on behind those dark eyes that sometimes felt so unknowable? Then she turned, pulling her body into a knot so that she was a swirl of darkness on his faded bed linens with her inky hair, her skin like caramel and the tight black turtleneck and pants she wore molding her body. He took the camera from the tripod and moved to capture her from another angle.
    When the shutter clicked, she turned her face to his and stared at him. “Put the camera down and lie here with me,” she mu rmured.
    She held out her hand to him, then pulled