Page 71 of In Knots

“The way it what?” he asks me with what sounds like a hint of suspicion.

“The way it hits your eyes.”

“Right,” he mutters, and I scurry away, finding a t-shirt in the bedroom and tugging it over my head, before grabbing my bag and my camera.

I switch it on as I stroll back out into the living room and find him still perched on his chair, looking uncomfortable.

“We really don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I say.

“I want to,” he says firmly, “just tell me what you want me to do.”

I giggle.

“What?” he asks frowning, his eyes flicking down to the hem of my shirt.

“I haven’t done this before, so I have as much idea as you.”

“Hmm, well maybe just start by taking something natural.”

“OK.”

He shakes his head a little, then stares out across the room. “This alright?” he asks me.

“Uh huh.” I bring the camera up to my eye and find him in the shot, adjusting the focus and blurring everything around him. I wasn’t exaggerating or flattering him. He is beautiful. His eyes, his soft lips, his smooth skin, and the angle of his face. I snap and snap again. Walking closer so that he grows in size in the viewfinder. The morning light is a creamy white, and it gives him an ethereal look even sitting at the kitchen table with dirty crockery scattered all around him and the sink behind him piled high with pans.

“How am I doing?” he asks, his hazel eyes flicking to find me through the camera, the green and gold swirling together. I draw a quick breath, my stomach spinning.

“Good,” I say, pressing down the shutter and capturing that image.

I take a step closer and then another, drawn in by his eyes, by that stare, snapping away as I do.

When I lower my camera, I find myself right before him, and I jump in surprise.

“Done?” he asks me.

“I don’t think anyone could ever be done photographing you,” I whisper.

“I think you’re trying to flatter my ego.” He holds out his hand. “Can I take your photo now, Omega?”

“Mine?’

“It only seems fair.” I consider him for a moment, then nod my head and pass him the camera.

He turns it over in his hands, then holds it up to his eyes and fiddles with the setting before he takes the first photo.

“Oh god, that must look awful. You know I’m going to delete it straight away. I haven’t even brushed my hair today.”

“You look beautiful.” His voice is quiet again. Shy almost.

“You don’t have to say that–”

“Oh, come on,” he smiles, “You know you’re beautiful.” He examines the photo. “Can I take another?”

“OK”

“Against the wall this time. I want to take a proper photo.”

I stand in front of the wall, feeling stiff and silly.

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