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.