Parallel

The click, click, click of a camera draws his attention. 

A young couple, beautiful, gorgeous, start-of-their-lives-pretty. An even younger photographer. A restaurant proposal that looks so beautiful. 

And a stood up date stares at them. He’s sitting alone, his camera case sat on the table. 

He’s watching the people, dressed to the nines. Diamonds and dresses and suits and credit cards heavy with extra cash. Cash he doesn’t have to burn to know theirs is already smoking. 

He watches the proposal, the elegant gentleman down on one knee with a ruby in his hand. She’s wearing red, it’s probably her favorite color he thinks. 

The younger photographer, still all flashy clothes and uncomfortable shoes, is catching photos left and right, practically alight with the chance to make their mark on the world.

The lady says yes, the gentleman smiles. There’s applause. He finds himself clapping too, hands moving without his direction. 

He looks at his camera and frowns. He was going to take pictures after this, not wanting to let his camera rot with dust on his desk. His photos are months old, his rent is due, but he’s spending his money on dates that don’t work out.

His date’s seat, whatever her name had been, is empty. The perfectly set table, with all the forks and spoons that he doesn’t know what are used for, are untouched. There's a complimentary bottle of wine that is unopened. 

He gives one last look at the shiny new photographer, who is shaking hands with the gentleman. The woman waves at them.

He gets up and leaves, taking his camera with him. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s outside and the street is dark and leaves dance on the cobblestones. The wind is high and the sky is darkening not just with night but with the damp smell of the air before rain.  

He walks away from the shining restaurant lights, away from the new photographer doing better than he ever would, away from the life he could’ve lived. But could he have?

He arrives home, an apartment he could never call a house. Only the rich could get a good house in this economy.

He sits on his bed, his camera stares at him from his desk. He decides to take it out of the case as he hasn’t in months. 

Held in his hands like a newborn baby, he pops off the lens protector and pushes down the on button.

Gingerly, he clicks the shutters closed. The floodgates open and the need to do something with this camera he loved so much comes spiraling out. 

He takes photos of everything in his house. 

From the overdue rent notices on his counter to the pictures on the walls of people he had met but hadn’t seen in years. He takes pictures of the walls, of an empty dog bed and dish, of everything that could be anything.

He puts his camera down, film overdue and over shot. He looks around the emptying apartment. He has never felt more alone. He misses something - someone - he can't remember.

He doesn’t pay his rent that month either.