After Life

8

I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, turning my head away from the biting February wind that chilled my skin. I walked quickly, my eyes down, my blonde hair blowing across my face in an irritating way. Usually, I would push it away, but I didn’t have the motivation. My only goal at this moment was to get home, into the warmth and safety of my apartment.

My heart was still pounding in my ears, my stomach tight and uncomfortable as the memory of my second confrontation in less than a week with Harry was still fresh in my mind. I pressed my lips together in a tight line as I saw the look on his face at the realization of what I was asking finally dawned on him.  It was one of surprise, followed quickly by anger. I wasn’t sure what angered him more? The topic to which I felt he fit so perfectly, or the request to be photographed at all. It was a reaction that made no sense to such a simple invitation, and yet, it was the reaction I knew to expect from him. Despite knowing this would be how he responded to me, I asked him anyways.

His refusal was swift and harsh, and even though I knew it would be, I still found myself reeling from it. Part of me had prepared myself for his rebuttal, but another, more naïve part of me had hoped he would accept.

Now that he had refused me, I was left with nothing but questions.

Why did he feel so intensely about having his photograph taken? I had met people in the past who didn’t enjoy having their photo taken for various reasons, but never had I met someone who so forcefully refused. I couldn’t fathom his reasons no matter how much I considered what they could be. 

He was attractive to the point of head turning, so surely, he had had his photo taken before. Not necessarily professionally, but I just couldn’t imagine someone who looked like that not having some familiarity with being on the end of a camera.  Even if it was just for family gatherings or friends taking pictures at parties, people had their photos taken. Did Harry refuse in every one of those settings?

I considered the countless possibilities for his anger and mercurial behavior as I finally made my way back to my apartment. I honestly couldn’t even recall most of my walk home, since I had been so wrapped up in my own thoughts. Climbing the stairs slowly, I felt a burn in my legs from the exertion of rushing home so quickly combined with the chill of the air outside. The cold seemed to cling to the fabric of my jeans, my muscles holding onto the frosty temperature despite being inside and out of the winter wind. Suddenly I was consumed with the desire to climb into my bathtub and hide away until bedtime.

Slipping inside, I sighed with relief once finally back in the safety of home. Shedding my boots and coat, I tossed my bag on the floor beside the kitchen table before venturing into the living room to find Mia curled up on the couch, surrounded by books and papers.

“Hey,” she greeted, never lifting her head. She was wearing her NYU sweatshirt, her old, worn track pants covering her legs. On her lap was a textbook, a notebook covering half the page as she wrote frantically. Three more textbooks were scattered on the couch and coffee table, the calming scent of vanilla filling the room from the candle in the corner. It was a habit of hers when studying, to light a vanilla candle. Vanilla was soothing, and supposed to evoke a calming influence and relax the mind. I always thought it to be hokum, but Mia swore by her little ritual.

“Hey,” I sighed, throwing myself down in the small arm chair under the window at the far end of the couch. Seeming to sense my dejected tone, Mia lifted her head, turning to look at me slightly from over her shoulder.