Page 3 of Lost Love on 6th Street

It’s difficult to pull my eyes away from the photo, but I manage it. “Um. Good. Actually, do you recognize anything about this photo? There’s no description and, well, two heads are better than one.”

Jolene crosses to the table and peers down at the photo. “Well, that’s the old Lone Star,” she says.

“The Lo.” Makes sense.

“But other than that,” Her brow furrows. “How did this get in here?” she says, more to herself than to me. “Just toss that one, Eleanor. No one will want a copy.”

My heart drops into my stomach. The beauty of photographs is the ability of film to capture ephemeral moments and make them everlasting. This might not be the original photo, but what if the original is gone? “I’ll keep it,” I say. “If that’s alright.”

Jolene cocks her head to the side. “You want to keep it?”

“Uh. Yeah, there’s . . . just something about it.”

Her confusion turns into endearment. “It speaks to you?”

I half-laugh. “I guess, yeah, you could say that. I’m curious.”

“Say no more. I get it. That’s why we’re here, right?” she says, opening her arms to gesture to the caverns of binders.

“That’s true,” I say. I hate to admit it, but I’ve definitely judged a book by its cover. Jolene is tall, blonde, and made up for a night on the town. Doesn’t seem like the type that would want to scuttle photos away in the basement. But who is to say that all archivists should be like me? Bookish and quiet? “You’ll have to tell me what got you into museums initially sometime,” I say.

Jolene looks down at her watch. “How about I take you to lunch, and we can trade stories?”

“Deal,” I say.

Before I leave, I carefully place the photo into my bag, right next to my padded camera case.

A mystery to visit later.

2

LUKE

I tuck my phone between my shoulder and ear, squeezing tight so it doesn’t fall to the tile floor of the convenience store. The fluorescents are starting to nag at my eyes. “Okay, tell me again what they want?”

My assistant, Randy, replies with detailed intensity, “They specifically want 7-Eleven brand gummi bears. Not worms, no name brand. 7-Eleven gum—”

“Got it,” I say, snatching every bag of 7-Eleven brand gummi bears off the rack. “Anything else specific?”

Randy chuckles. “I think we got everything else on the rider.”

“We better have,” I grumble before dropping all the bags onto the counter and adjusting the phone into my hand. My neck aches from being crooked. “This is the last time I work with the band from Brushy Creek.”

“You always say that.”

“And this time I mean it. They say they’re from Austin, but they’re all from—” I jab my card into the reader, not bothering to look at the price, “bougie suburbs and think they’re so fucking special.” I rip the card out.

Randy sighs. “If they’re bougie, why are they requesting 7-Eleven gummi bears?”

“Don’t argue with me, Randy.”

He chuckles. “Luke, take it easy, alright? It was an easy fix.”

A missing item from a rider is usually an easy fix. Mostly because they’re usually reasonable asks. Chips and salsa. Coconut water. Sugar-free Red Bull. Not specific 7-Eleven brand gummi bears.

I take a deep breath. I could have sent Randy and dealt with other things, but I wouldn’t have been able to focus. I jogged all the way here. Needed to get my energy out. I left him to deal with all the last-minute details before the venue opened to the audience.

“Yeah. You’re right,” I say with finality.

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