It’s a small set of three.

Each photo is about the size of a large stamp, and although the surfaces are glossy, the film is black and white. A cheap, mass produced sort of product—the sort of thing you’d get from a photo booth.

Exactly the sort of thing you’d get from a photo booth.

The photo booth in the Walgreen’s Drugs on Tropicana and Mesa, fifteen miles outside of Henderson, to be precise.

The background is dark; some sort of cheap drape hanging in folds and a bit solemn looking, but there’s not much of it visible in the shots—just over the top of their heads and along her side, mostly. Sitting, she’s taller, but it’s only because she’s on his lap, which brings her shoulders above his.

In the first photo they both look uncomfortable, faces slightly sheepish as they face the camera. She’s got a sort of a half-grin, revealing the gap between her front teeth, and a hint of a dimple on one cheek. He’s facing straight ahead, but his eyes are turned to her and his expression is . . . indulgent. The impression is that this entire escapade is HER idea, buuuut he’s willing to go along with it.

Especially if she’s sitting in his lap.

The second photo, which was taken ten seconds later, according to the timestamp in the corner, shows a shift of position and expression. She kisses his cheek; his head is cocked to receive the caress, and his eyes are closed in a look of private bliss, his lashes long, his smile a secret untold. Even with her lips puckered up, she looks decidedly impish, and the dimple is much deeper along the side of her mouth.

But the last photo is the final unfolding; his hand has caught her cheek, cupping it, and they are kissing. Deeply, sweetly, without a single thought beyond the merging of their two mouths, two hearts, two souls. Both of them have their eyes closed, but it’s clearly all the better to savor the deliciousness secret of this very private love.

These are the first photos.

They are not the last.


End.