The Frame William Keeps

Morning light reaches the table before William switches on the camera. He goes back through last night's frames, one press at a time: black, a tilted patch of pavement, black again.

Then his own face, caught at arm's length.

The flash has taken almost everything from it. Forehead and nose run together into a pale, flat shape. One cheek has an edge; the other disappears into light. Behind him there is nothing the camera can show.

William brings the screen closer. The movement changes the reflection on the glass, not the photograph. He tries another angle anyway.

His thumb finds the delete button and rests beside it.

For a long time he looks at the little dark notch where his mouth is still visible. He cannot tell whether he was about to speak or had just stopped. He remembers lowering the camera, but not making that expression.

Outside, a vehicle starts, idles, moves away. Sunlight has reached his wrist.

He presses the arrow instead. The next frame appears. Then he goes back once, to make sure the white face is still there, and switches the camera off.