You
filled your bag with rolls of film about to expire. The planks of the
boardwalk were dusted in sand, a cold wind blew off the ocean, the
approaching fall. You said you preferred people in your photographs.
The Mexican boys selling rosaries from a backpack. The old women in
pink Adidas jump suits sharing a can of beer. You couldn't believe
the price of a hotdog. Old Coney Island, sitting next to the new. We
saw a sign advertising a palm-sized woman. I suggested we have a
look. It didn't occur to me we were paying a dollar each to see a
midget. I don't think you realized it either. A midget in a rocking
chair, a rocking chair in a trailer, a trailer in a dusty field. You
asked her if this was how she made her money. She pointed to the
camera around your neck, then to a sign behind her. She wanted you to
take her picture, for an extra dollar. You hesitated, paid the money,
and snapped. We walked the boardwalk, an awkward silence between us.
The photo would never be seen. You would develop everything else
except that one.
Loren Moreno
Lovers
Daniel
Arsand