68 Ginger
68
Ginger
It was all I could think or talk about: the future I imagined for myself when I returned to London, the excitement, the anticipation, all those ideas going through my mind, even if I forgot half of them right away. I was…euphoric. And Rhys would listen to me and smile, even if sometimes he seemed far away from me and even himself, as if he were fading out.
“Rhys, are you seeing the same thing as me?”
“A street full of people?”
“No! A photo booth!”
“No, Ginger Snap…”
“Come on. Please.”
I pulled him along, and he only resisted slightly before following me into the little square cell. I closed the blue curtain to be sure no one could see us and slipped my money in. I was sitting on him, one arm over his shoulders, our faces together, and I laughed when he put a hand under my dress. I kissed him, and the whole moment was immortalized: the magic of feeling his lips on mine.
Rhys looked at the strip of photos when it came out, and the hot night wind surrounded us. I saw his expression change. He tore off a couple of the pictures, one of us smiling, one of us kissing with his hand buried in my hair. He slipped them into the back pocket of his jeans.
“I thought you didn’t like photos…”
“I like these,” he responded softly.