The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Twenty One

I can't let her go. 

"Pretty distracted," I admit, quietly. In fact, it comes out more like a growl. "But I'm a professional. Now go down the steps and walk to the end of the pier and stop.  Don't turn around."

She smiles again and takes a deep breath before turning away from me.  She takes the stairs down slowly and carefully and I have to bite down on my tongue to stop from groaning aloud at the sight of her walking away from me completely naked.  Her skin looks even paler under the moon, luminous and ethereal, and almost fluid in texture. A milky soft substance that could be liquid to the touch.  

I lower myself to the ground, placing the camera on the top step and lying flat on my stomach at the top of the stairs. The pier isn't very long, 10 feet at most, and by the side of it the small rowing boat rocks calmly.  There isn't a sound anywhere except for the faint noises of birdlife roosting in the dark of the trees and the soft padding of Eloise's feet across the squeaking wood. As instructed, she stops right at the end, hands by her sides and eyes facing straight ahead.  I drop my eye to the viewfinder and press my body into the ground as I set the shutter speed and narrow the aperture. 

The lake is pitch black through the eye of the camera, the sky only a few shades lighter, and then there was her.  Illuminated by the moon.  She made a stark white lonely figure.  No, that isn't right. Eloise didn't look lonely. She never looked alone. She always looked to me like she was fully capable and more than happy to be by herself.  She didn't need anyone else.  It was everyone else who needed her.   It was everyone else, me included, who longed to be in her orbit. 

Maybe because when she looked at you or smiled at you and became aware of you, it made you feel like the luckiest person in the world.  She had the ability to make you feel more important just by noticing you.  She made you feel like you'd achieved something by capturing her attention.  Perhaps it was only that I'd strived so hard for her attention, that the sense of accomplishment at having it is what I feel now.  

Suddenly I want to sit down with the prick and ask him if he feels that way about her too.  If he realises how lucky he is to have her and to have shared his life with her for however long it had been.  Then I remember that since he's fucking Nicole Weston he clearly feels nothing of the sort. Undeserving prick. Yeah, that conversation would last about thirty seconds before I cracked him one in the jaw.

"I'm cold, Aidan, how long have I to stand here? Are you really just taking pictures of my backside?" She complains without turning her head.

"Your arse is fucking incredible can you blame me?"

"It's not my favourite thing about myself but each to their own." She shrugs.

"What is your favourite thing about yourself?" I ask as I lower my eye again.  I take a couple of shots of her bum while she mulls over her response.

"The inside of my left arm between my wrist and my elbow," she says. "What about you?"

"I like your hip freckle and your nose crinkle but I have a whole list ranked in order and sorted by categories and subcategories.  I'll write them down for you later if you want."

I see her shoulders move with a soft laugh.  "I meant about yourself."

"Oh right.  Well, I have a separate list for that. Actually, it's not so much of a list and more like a line from a good review I got once from The London Standard. Stand straight," I tell her and she does.  "Okay now turn your head, just your head, and look at me."

She twists her neck round over her right shoulder and smiles, but when her eyes meet mine the smile fades into something more intense and thoughtful.  It makes my chest do a weird tightening thing.  The look both scares me and makes me feel hopeful at the same time. It makes me wonder if she still thinks I should go home.