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Message-ID: <44251asstr$1063134607@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "smilodon" <smilodonREMOVE@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 9 Sep 2003 11:51:35 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} 1/15th at f11
Date: Tue,  9 Sep 2003 15:10:07 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d



1/125th at f11



Photo albums are the ossuary of our dreams. I found it quite by accident,
rummaging in the loft among the boxes of once-read books and old sports
equipment. There she was. A beach in winter, wrapped up against the wind
that whipped the waves to whitecaps, frozen in the frame. Her hair was a
tattered banner against the grey sky but the warmth in her smile keeps the
viewer from shivering. It was one of my earlier efforts. I don't even have
that camera anymore. Black and white, of course, I didn't get the fixing
quite right and it has started to flake around the edges - a bit like me.

She looks so impossibly young. The wide, myopic gaze, the elfin face.
Memories of soft-breasted night: of gentle love amid the tangled sheets. The
scent of her! No one else wore 'Anais Anais 'as sweetly. It all came
flooding back. I recalled the smoothness of her skin, the way she would look
at me through lidded eyes that always preceded a wild bout of lovemaking.
The night of the Great Power Cut, we lay naked by the fire, fucking joyously
by candlelight. The day the snow came, sudden and heavy, closing the roads.
We couldn't get to work so stayed in bed, drinking brandy and listening to
the wind moaning about the eaves.

Mostly I remember her hair: a riot of silken softness where I used to hide
from the world, as we clung to each other in the darkness. The incoherent
mutterings of passion, declarations of undying love, resonate within me
still. And yet, and yet. There is nothing in the photo of a girl upon a
beach to tell you that. Just another pretty girl, caught in a moment on a
blustery day those many years ago. The captured smile, the waves stiff as
meringue in the cold light.

I turned the picture over. On the back, in a youthful version of my current
scrawl, it bore the legend: "1/125th at f11."

Later, as I lay beside her present self, listening to her soft breathing, I
could smile. Yes, photo albums are the ossuary of our dreams. Only memory
can put flesh upon those bones.


smilodon

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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