That must've been the thousandth photograph she took of me. The shutter sound was enough to bring me out of my thoughts as she took the film and held it in the stillness of her palms before shaking it until my face came into view: chestnut orbs cradled between chiseled cheekbones, freckles that loitered the bridge of my nose, and my dark slicked back hair complimenting my tan skin.
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"You're so photogenic, Bowie," she muttered coyly, "part of me wishes I could capture you in that lull forever behind my retinas, but I suppose this polaroid will have to suffice." She admitted as she looked at me for a beat too long. "But I didn't say that because my heart supposedly belongs to my husband in a perfect world... and you... write short films. I don't think I could ever live up to having Julia Roberts play me in a film should you write about me someday."
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The air was crisp enough to freeze my cheeks a rosy red as we walked down the vacant streets and she window shopped while I people watched mainly; something I've always been fascinated in doing albeit some growing uncomfortable with my longing gaze. I looked at her too... I mean... I really look at her her: her auburn locks cascading over her cream colored blouse that clung to her fittingly as she gazed over the trinkets in the window of the antique shop.
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I grabbed the camera from her and grinned as she instantaneously posed with her chin facing the sun that started to settle on the horizon, her eyes on me as I took the picture. If I were the sun, I'd wake up every morning to kiss her too, but I'd never say that out loud because we live in a perfect world... supposedly... and I'd never write a film about her; I would be too selfish to have others see her the way I do. "Julia Roberts could never depict you."
