March 11, 2012

My dearest,

“Hey,” I say, “go and take a picture from the outside.”

“Why?” you ask.

“It’s different at night,” I say, “we’ve never been here this late before. It’s a different light at night. The café, the tables and chairs, the carnations in the bottles of water, they’ll look different.”

You nod okay and you rush out. You’re excited about a new angle, another opportunity to take a photograph. I return to my notebook. The crowd that was here before us when we arrived at six has left for their dinner. It’s quieter now. The café crew busy themselves cleaning the glasses and the counter. There is a certain glow, an evening atmosphere we have not had the chance to experience before.

You return. You show me the photographs you have taken with your iPhone. The café manager comes over to refill our water and smiles at us. She’s used to our antics by now — you taking pictures of everything in sight and me giving my approval or suggestions.

It’s a different light at night — but still pretty damn good when it’s shared with you.

Yours, ever and always.