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Portrait
"Tilt your chin," Jennifer said, and the old man complied.
She walked to over where he sat on the stool and turned his shoulders towards the camera. She stepped back, looked him over, and nodded.
"Yeah, that's good."
It was quarter to seven on a miserably cold Friday evening, and Jennifer Hudson was bushed. She wanted
nothing more than to stash her camera and tripod and get the hell out of her studio,
retreat to her flat and break out the blender for a well-deserved margarita.
The old man's money had thrown a wrench into that plan. He hadn't insisted that she
do a last-minute job, but what could it hurt? She'd be in and out in ten minutes, fifteen tops, and now she had cash for groceries.
"So, are you from around here?" She asked, back behind the camera.
Click. She adjusted the Nikon's aperture to allow for less light.
"Here and there," he said, smiling. His teeth were very long, very white. Jennifer
tried and failed to place his accent, settled for somewhere snowy and European where
the castles were rented by movie stars. "I have not been home in a terribly long time.
You, I think, are not a native either."
"Jersey girl, born and raised." Click. "But I've always wanted to live in London, and when my Aunt Carrie
died and left me a boatload of cash, well. I jumped."
Click. Click.
"Rest your chin on your hands," Jennifer said.
"It must be lonesome," he said, shifting to accommodate her, propping a pale fist beneath his chin.
It made him look like some troubled Old World lord deep in contemplation. "To be a stranger in a new country."
"Sometimes it is." Click. "But it's not so different from home. People still get drunk after work; still ignore each
other on the subway. Tube. Whatever." Click. "It's for the grandkids, right?"
"Pardon me?"
"This." Click. "The portrait. You're taking these for your kids? Grandkids?"
"Ah. No, I am not."
Jennifer waited, and when no clarification came, shrugged, switched lenses, and continued.
Sometimes old timers got it in their heads to capture themselves in time, to leave a part
of themselves behind before they died. Jennifer wouldn't grudge the man his approaching sense of mortality.
As if sensing her curiosity, he said: "I suppose… we all want to make ourselves known to others at some point.
Our true selves. Urges like this, for those like me, could probably be considered suicidal."
Jennifer snapped a new lens into place, unsure if she had heard him right.
"Suicidal?"
"Oh, yes. Imagine living among enemies your entire life, knowing them intimately, coming to understand them.
Perhaps even beginning to love them. Wouldn't the burden of simply being what you are move you to confess?"
He began to look his age as he spoke. His eyes were far away. "They would hunt you down, knowing what you are,
with torches and dogs." He sighed. "I've lived too long. Far, far too long."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"No, you wouldn't," he said, not unkindly. He glanced at his watch. "I think that will do."
"Oh? Well, okay-where should I mail your prints?"
"I won't need them," he said. "Keep them."
"Oh."
He rose with a long-legged, ponderous grace. She met his gaze-his eyes were deep-set and blue like frozen
lakes, with delicate traceries of silver veins throughout. When she looked into them the camera fell from her hands to the floor.
"Apologies," he said, and bent to pick it up. "I sometimes forget that I have that effect."
"What effect?" Jennifer asked, forgetting what he had said, why he was handing her the camera.
"I wish you luck," he said, shrugging into his coat. "I think… I may take a walk tomorrow morning."
He smiled suddenly, and in that brief moment Jennifer saw canines sharp as needles poking over his lips.
An eddy of frigid air enveloped her. He was gone into the night.
There had been something strange about that old man, but she'd be damned if she could remember exactly what it was.
Shaking her head, Jennifer switched off the lights and locked up the studio.
Jennifer hung his photos up to dry the following Monday. At first she thought her eyes were playing tricks,
but no- she stood and gaped at the pictures, at the empty stool in each.
"I never should've left Jersey," she said, and fainted.
Michael Fosburg is a twenty-one year old college student.
Email: Michael Fosburg
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