A Momentary Interaction:
For a moment I step away from the camera and look you in the eyes, unmediated by a screen. “What’s wrong?” you ask me, only a few short steps away, just beyond the warm glow of daylight. “Are you not getting what you want?” The tenor of your voice seems lower than usual, more deliberate, like the carefully placed steps of a man wandering in blinding snow.
It is Sunday afternoon, and unseasonably warm for December. You lie quietly in my bed, grey jersey reflecting light onto your legs and chest like diffused ripples of water. Your left hand rests somewhere between the V of your ribcage and your chest, your right hand tucked defensively between two pillows. Your eyes are awash with anticipation, the uncertainty of what’s to come. I sense a shift in your mood, a weariness that I don’t fully understand. I take off my shirt.
Your eyes dart from the lens to my chest, from the camera to the tattoo that covers my stomach. We no longer know where to look.