oh, anna [-hs]

cherry

Emma pours something from a pot into two ceramic bowls. "You were going to make grilled cheese for our soup," she points out.

"Ahh but I got distracted," Quinn teases. The camera jostles. Emma shakes her head, amused and disapproving.

"You would die if I didn't live here with you, you know that right?"

They walk out of the kitchen to the table. Emma props her feet up on the surface. "You are the definition of conventional beauty," Quinn calls out. Emma rolls her eyes.

"Stop flirting, you're going to confuse yourself," she retorts.

I watch the screen religiously, drinking in their figures on the little screen. I made breakfast in that kitchen one time. Quinn panicked. Yet there's Emma, pouring her a bowl of soup, feeding her. The screen switches to a new scene.

A coffee shop. A woman's fingers press the sticky keys of an old cash register. The receipt screams as it's printed.

I wonder why Quinn filmed that. What in her brain thought that register was worth that second of footage? What called out to her? I'm desperate to understand, but it switches again.

NYFW. Backstage. She's filming nothing, just the room. An empty space. There's light chatter, a nameless song playing. The camera trembles and Quinn takes a deep sigh. The shot ends.

I don't have time to process it before the next one starts.

Sidewalk. My shoes. "Don't be shy," Quinn urges.

"What do you want me to do?" My voice is fearful, heavier than I remember. I hardly recognize it.

"Whatever you feel like doing. What's your gut telling you to do?"

My feet begin to dance. I quietly hum to myself. She chuckles.

My eyes start brimming. My back hits the headboard with a soft thud. The camera trembles in my hand, I steady it on my knee. Shot after shot. Clip after clip. You can hear us murmuring to each other in the background.

"What is it? Do you feel something right here?" The camera jostles and lifts, exposing me. I'm standing on a sidewalk, the orange sky above me. My face falls. "No, I'm supposed to see how you work, this isn't about me."

"I am working," she murmurs. Her voice is loud, closer to the device. "No," she laughs. "You have to act natural."

"Not sure how to do that when you're pointing that thing at me." I mumble.

"Look away, at a car driving by." My head whips toward the road. "And now tell me something."

"Tell you what?"

"I don't know, a story, something I don't already know," she offers.

I squeeze my eyes shut, tears drowning my face. I can't watch the rest of this one.

"You have a rainbow energy, being with you, looking at you, it's like, you know the feeling when you open a hot oven and the massive wave of heat hits you in the face. And it hurts but it also feels a little good. Everytime I'm with you, it's like I'm staring into a furnace, or walking on fire."

I try to suppress a sob, but it tears through my throat and echoes into the room.

Random scenes from the country. Probably France. A steaming coffee cup. A little black puppy with a white paw. A girl in a grocery store uniform, giggling.

A bed, the sheets painted in green and yellow flowers. Two pairs of bare legs, tangled together. The grocery girl's laughter sings out from the camera.