a light conversation of rain; it’s unwanted. he was sitting outside turning himself into a photograph – an idea developing slowly. he’d been struck by the angles of the docks the last time he had sat out there, how the change of perspective played with composition; worked a totally different effect.
he lit up; half a cigarette he’d been saving: savouring. had he been close to a choice to stop smoking again? maybe. it was stupid, he knew, but there was a certain romance to the whole act, and he’d been suckered in by those old black and white films, where the thin ribbons of grey appeared as unspooling thoughts from the head of some troubled PI or some French intellectual type.
the wind was picking up, making the waves choppy – he watched the horizon break up in the scattered light of distant storm and calm, and wondered distractedly whether he should get up and go inside. he wished he had his camera with him – his idea was changing.
she’d be back soon; he’d use her eyes – try and see what she saw. he often grew tired of the way that he looked at the world: so studied; so informed by aesthetic considerations, by various branches of philosophy; she was raw, untutored … and that sometimes translated to him as more real.
a fancy caught him up – that he was a kite; dragged out and over that body of water. he was benjamin franklin’s kite, or some replica of it, key and all, and as if his daydream drew it down, lightning struck the water about four feet in front of him.
how often did that happen? he wasn’t sure. a couple of fish leapt and flopped back under the slate mirror, birds evacuated the sky, the rain got heavier. well, he thought, much as i like this and what it does to my surroundings, i don’t want a cold – better go inside.
next time he would take his camera; he knew what he was looking for now … would know it when he saw it. would capture it.