Marcus says. “You did. And now it’s gone. So…I think our agreement has come to an end. If we can’t arrive at a compromise, that is.”
Like when you have banged a toe and you pause a moment knowing that now…now the pain will come, Frank waits for anger to well up inside. But it doesn’t come.
Calmly, he asks, “How much?”
“I don’t know. Five?”
“And if I refuse? If I sit there without…paying rent?”
Marcus feigns a look of shock.
“But that would be trespassing! I would have to call the police!”
Frank nods and says, “Tomorrow.”
He has no real card to use against Marcus. The father probably wouldn’t much like the fact that his son had rented a tree to a scandal photographer, but nothing could be proven.
“Fine by me,” Marcus says and gets up. “I’m going to get some sleep. Good luck.”
The light is perfect when Frank returns to the tree. Afternoon sun and soft shadows. Not a cloud in the sky. He works his way up the trunk like a koala bear, making his way out onto his branch, and prepares to chew the eucalyptus leaves of idle time for yet another couple of hours.
The pool shimmers and entices. The air is caressingly balmy, and the deck chairs and umbrella create a backdrop that does not shout but whispers for its actors.
Come on…come on now….
Frank shifts into a comfortable position and takes a sip of the cold water. He chokes on it when he sees Amanda emerge from the house and he presses his mouth into the crook of his arm so he won’t make a sound, a sound that could be heard down below.
He coughs into his elbow and his eyes tear up when he sees Amanda slowly walk along the edge of the pool. She is dressed in a red bikini with yellow polka dots. Frank has seen one like it before, but he can’t remember where. Breathless, he holds up his binoculars and looks at her.
The same deliberate, graceful way of moving as when she received the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. For some reason Frank gets the impression that she is unhappy. Caught in a role she can’t escape.
The irritation in his throat subsides by the time Roberto emerges. He goes up to Amanda and caresses her long hair. Frank lifts the camera, focuses, shoots and captures Roberto’s hand just as it strokes Amanda’s cheek.
It may be enough.
There has been no pictorial evidence of the romance yet. And now there is. A hand on a cheek. But the hand continues down to her waist and comes to rest there. Frank shoots again, holds his breath.
Come on, come on…
And…yes. Roberto brings his face closer to hers and all the hours that Frank has spent hating him—this homegrown Latin lover with his Top Ten hits and his English with its fake Spanish accent—are erased.
Good boy.
Their lips meet, the shutter flies up and closes but Frank keeps his finger on the release button and takes a series of shots until the whole roll is gone. Frank trembles with impatience while the motor winds the film, promising to get himself a digital camera after this. Then he tears out the roll and quickly inserts a new one. His fingers are slick with sweat but he manages to get it in place and they are still kissing each other; Roberto’s hands move all over Amanda’s body and Frank’s body is bubbling with joy while he shoots, he shoots. He lowers the camera for a couple of seconds and rubs his eyes.
The couple by the pool become two tiny dolls performing a pantomime. Frank giggles. They’re moving so stiffly, so robotlike, that Amanda would never have won an Oscar if she had played this love scene on the big screen.
Frank peers through the viewfinder again. Their faces are remarkably blank, as if they were enacting a scene without any idea how they should behave. And for whom were they acting?
For me.
Frank shoots and shoots and what he has not dared hoped for happens. Roberto helps Amanda out of her bikini and tosses it into the pool. Yellow dots on a red background. After a couple of seconds it starts to
Like when you have banged a toe and you pause a moment knowing that now…now the pain will come, Frank waits for anger to well up inside. But it doesn’t come.
Calmly, he asks, “How much?”
“I don’t know. Five?”
“And if I refuse? If I sit there without…paying rent?”
Marcus feigns a look of shock.
“But that would be trespassing! I would have to call the police!”
Frank nods and says, “Tomorrow.”
He has no real card to use against Marcus. The father probably wouldn’t much like the fact that his son had rented a tree to a scandal photographer, but nothing could be proven.
“Fine by me,” Marcus says and gets up. “I’m going to get some sleep. Good luck.”
The light is perfect when Frank returns to the tree. Afternoon sun and soft shadows. Not a cloud in the sky. He works his way up the trunk like a koala bear, making his way out onto his branch, and prepares to chew the eucalyptus leaves of idle time for yet another couple of hours.
The pool shimmers and entices. The air is caressingly balmy, and the deck chairs and umbrella create a backdrop that does not shout but whispers for its actors.
Come on…come on now….
Frank shifts into a comfortable position and takes a sip of the cold water. He chokes on it when he sees Amanda emerge from the house and he presses his mouth into the crook of his arm so he won’t make a sound, a sound that could be heard down below.
He coughs into his elbow and his eyes tear up when he sees Amanda slowly walk along the edge of the pool. She is dressed in a red bikini with yellow polka dots. Frank has seen one like it before, but he can’t remember where. Breathless, he holds up his binoculars and looks at her.
The same deliberate, graceful way of moving as when she received the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. For some reason Frank gets the impression that she is unhappy. Caught in a role she can’t escape.
The irritation in his throat subsides by the time Roberto emerges. He goes up to Amanda and caresses her long hair. Frank lifts the camera, focuses, shoots and captures Roberto’s hand just as it strokes Amanda’s cheek.
It may be enough.
There has been no pictorial evidence of the romance yet. And now there is. A hand on a cheek. But the hand continues down to her waist and comes to rest there. Frank shoots again, holds his breath.
Come on, come on…
And…yes. Roberto brings his face closer to hers and all the hours that Frank has spent hating him—this homegrown Latin lover with his Top Ten hits and his English with its fake Spanish accent—are erased.
Good boy.
Their lips meet, the shutter flies up and closes but Frank keeps his finger on the release button and takes a series of shots until the whole roll is gone. Frank trembles with impatience while the motor winds the film, promising to get himself a digital camera after this. Then he tears out the roll and quickly inserts a new one. His fingers are slick with sweat but he manages to get it in place and they are still kissing each other; Roberto’s hands move all over Amanda’s body and Frank’s body is bubbling with joy while he shoots, he shoots. He lowers the camera for a couple of seconds and rubs his eyes.
The couple by the pool become two tiny dolls performing a pantomime. Frank giggles. They’re moving so stiffly, so robotlike, that Amanda would never have won an Oscar if she had played this love scene on the big screen.
Frank peers through the viewfinder again. Their faces are remarkably blank, as if they were enacting a scene without any idea how they should behave. And for whom were they acting?
For me.
Frank shoots and shoots and what he has not dared hoped for happens. Roberto helps Amanda out of her bikini and tosses it into the pool. Yellow dots on a red background. After a couple of seconds it starts to
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