Page 8 of The Photo
N Adams:
I think it’s only fair if you show me your foot to help me gauge the competition. N
Am I dreaming again? This has to be a fabricated destination inside my sozzled brain, where I’ve locked away the fantasy of Noah and I being together. It’s a parallel world where we coexist. If anyone ever ventured inside there—fuck, they’d lock me up and throw away the key.
Our warm red-hot world consists of sex, hand holding and the odd spiritually connected conversation. I’m allowed to have private thoughts. Some people watch porn, I just daydream with the same famous person.
I read back over the private message he just sent me. It’s absolutely one hundred percent authentic and requires a response.
Rowan Hudson:
Are we swapping foot pics? Are you the genuine Noah Adams, the actual model (excluding summer footwear)?
I close my eyes briefly, sucking in my lips at the same time. Then, after a few starry-eyed blinks and a giddy giggle, another message appears. My post self-pleasure sleepiness has gone from horizontal to upright when his face appears.
He’s wearing a navy sports cap with full lips cracked open in a playful grin. Earphones adorn his ears, and the cord hangs at either side of his face. It’s a semi-close up—divinely so. I wish I could see the color of his eyes, but they hide in a shadow. My eyes finally release him, and I notice a pair of old man’s sandals with the tags on, dangling from his forefinger.
N Adams:
Nice to meet you, Rowan. Check out the goods. Should I buy these?
Oh, holy shit balls. He’s playing with me. It would be rude not to send him a photo in response, but my drunken skin is wishy washy and fatigued with a smudge of mascara and untamed wild hair in a nest around my head, but I should. At least laying on my back gives me a good angle. I switch around the viewfinder and tap the screen. The image of my startled expression is blurry. It will do. I could spend the night trying to perfect the shot and risk him getting bored. I add the text, ‘Nice to me you, Noah. Step away from the Moses sandals.’ Then I hit send.
In a beat, he replies.
N Adams:
You’re in bed? My flight is ready to board. I returned the sandals. Don’t forget the foot photo. Sweet dreams, Rowan.
I pop my painted toes on the turquoise duvet and take the photo, adding the comment, ‘Open for critique—a perfect ten?’ His last message was a goodbye with a hook. If I send this, he will have to reply.
The photo swooshes away, and in that millisecond of time passing, my stomach completes a round of somersaults. I slump back onto my mattress with phone in hand, patiently waiting for him to reply until my eyelids flutter closed.
* * *
The next morning, my cheek rolls onto my phone when I stir. It’s cold, hard and uncharged. Shit, I fell asleep before reading his reply.Ifhe replied. It bleeps when I plug the power cable in, but the screen stays black.
While it goes from red to green, I grab a quick shower, rough dry my hair and eat breakfast. The cider made my limbs sluggish, and my head pulsates. After a long drink of water, I turn the phone on and wait.
There’s no reply. No witty grading of my polished toenails and deathly pale skin tone. A wave of disappointment forces me to sit. I scroll back through our brief conversation from last night and pause at his selfie. Goddamn, he gorgeous. I’m guessing he boarded the flight to Rio before my feet greeted him.
I check his profile page, hoping and praying for new content. I’ll be ever so grateful if he’s posted another workout picture wearing fitted pale grey joggers. A few weeks ago, he added a selfie that left me dazed and more than amazed. I’d stared at the jersey material for more than a nanosecond, right where his thighs meet his groin, where the thick visually stimulating bulge rested. I have it bad. The stupor was more like five minutes, and I think there was a little trickle of drool too. There was no way that deliciously hot man did not know the silhouette of his manhood was on full show for me to gawk at. So what if I took a screenshot, just so I could zoom in and inspect the area closer?
Anyway, there isn’t a post workout selfie this morning. Instead, it’s aqua blue water lapping white sand and the comment #ModelLife splashed across the sparkling ocean.
Noah is in Rio, and I’m in my dingy kitchen listening to the rain puddle on the tarmac outside my window.
In one heart palpitation, I jump out of the chair, energized by my new plan. I unhook the window latch, push outwards and angle my phone to the grey sky. Then snap, I capture drizzly gloom, adjust the color contrast and highlights, then without falter, I type out #CollegeLife and #NotSoGlamorous, adding a smiley face emoji. It’s simple. I immediately hit send to his private message inbox and watch as it lands beneath the unseen photo of my pale feet.
The fact he didn’t offer a comment to the feet photo makes me dizzy. I suddenly realize how stalkerish I've become. My chest tightens, and my hand clamps over my gasping mouth. Why the hell did I send him another photo? I should delete my account and lead a Noah free life, where other men roam freely, other men in the same stratosphere.
I refresh my ap and wait.
I return to the photo he sent me last night and gaze at it for a heart flutter.
I grab my camera bag and then check for a notification.
I step outside and open my black umbrella, glancing up and down at my dark screen.
