whisking her away to Los Angeles. She looks too young to go. The amount of trust and faith she put in me is staggering.
Stacey in front of Barney’s Beanerie, drinking a Bloody Mary, doing a bad metalhead thing with her finger horns. Our first week in Los Angeles. Her snow-blonde hair is long and straight, almost long enough to reach the top of her butt. God how I loved her hair. Look at her. She’s coming out of her shell.
Stacey with Viggo Mortensen. Spotted him at Starbucks and couldn’t help herself. She looks drunk with lust. Viggo looks embarrassed for her. She loved The Lord of the Rings , the books and the movies. Called them her guilty pleasure. I never understood the guilt part.
Stacey painting the ballroom, her brush extended, she’s too short to even reach halfway up the wall. The optimism of the new move. The endless energy for redecorating. Where did it all go? Into the house, or just away?
Stacey in a puffy parka and knit cap blowing on a cup of coffee, somewhere cold, mountains in the background, maybe Colorado, a road trip I can’t remember. I was probably traveling for work. She looks chapped, cold.
Stacey and her friend Heather Keinzle from Redondo Beach, sisters in pedicure. Happy. She had been in a real funk after learning that Heather was moving away, a new best friend that was not to be.
Stacey eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes on the couch, Henry in her lap staring at the spoon like it is God. Thus begins the stay-home phase, where Stacey would rather spend all day with her dog than go out and be with people.
Stacey staring into her own phone taking her own picture with her pearly white teeth bared, this one taken and attached to a text reminding me to get my teeth cleaned. She always made the appointments, and kept them. She wanted me to take better care of myself. I thought she was nagging me.
Stacey lighting a candle on the dining-room table that is set for Thanksgiving, her chef apron hanging over the stemware. So serious, the pressure of her first holiday meal enormous.
Stacey in the passenger seat of her car on the drive to Pismo Beach, her hair golden and flying in the wind and the Pacific Ocean out her window. We had been fighting. This was one of those make-up trips. She was a downer, unable to summon the false enthusiasm. I don’t remember what we did for two days.
Stacey with a towel around her waist, one arm covering her breasts, shouting at me to stop it. We haven’t had sex in almost two months. This was not the way to get the ball rolling again.
Stacey leaning back on someone’s green Vespa in Santa Monica, posing with a cigarette. For the first time she looks hardened. Something in her has been lost. Is she depressed now? Really? Or was she just annoyed with me this day?
Stacey walking Henry on the path in Laurel Canyon, her floral print sundress tilting off her hips as if an invisible hand were tugging the hem, her gait tight, anxious, scurrying ahead of me.
Stacey looking up from her pillows, flat on her back, her eyes wide and her forehead lined as I stand over her taking this photo in bed, minutes after The Sex. We must have recovered somewhat. Sometimes the sex was still good. But it was like she wasn’t really there.
See them all again. Stacey happy, happy, happy, cool, sometimes surprised, sometimes chagrined, but almost always a crack of a smile, the eyes glinting with mischief. A normal girl becoming a woman. Two dozen photos, three dozen, four. Sixty, seventy photos in, the cracks begin to appear. More blank expressions than smiles. Her cheeks sucked in, her face drawn in some of the photos. In others, her normally natural white blonde hair a little off, one too many bad highlights, ashen. The forced smile. A tension in the shoulders. In later group photos, she was never quite looking at the camera. Her eyes seemed to be drifting, unfocused. It wasn’t obvious until the second pass, but a presence
Stacey in front of Barney’s Beanerie, drinking a Bloody Mary, doing a bad metalhead thing with her finger horns. Our first week in Los Angeles. Her snow-blonde hair is long and straight, almost long enough to reach the top of her butt. God how I loved her hair. Look at her. She’s coming out of her shell.
Stacey with Viggo Mortensen. Spotted him at Starbucks and couldn’t help herself. She looks drunk with lust. Viggo looks embarrassed for her. She loved The Lord of the Rings , the books and the movies. Called them her guilty pleasure. I never understood the guilt part.
Stacey painting the ballroom, her brush extended, she’s too short to even reach halfway up the wall. The optimism of the new move. The endless energy for redecorating. Where did it all go? Into the house, or just away?
Stacey in a puffy parka and knit cap blowing on a cup of coffee, somewhere cold, mountains in the background, maybe Colorado, a road trip I can’t remember. I was probably traveling for work. She looks chapped, cold.
Stacey and her friend Heather Keinzle from Redondo Beach, sisters in pedicure. Happy. She had been in a real funk after learning that Heather was moving away, a new best friend that was not to be.
Stacey eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes on the couch, Henry in her lap staring at the spoon like it is God. Thus begins the stay-home phase, where Stacey would rather spend all day with her dog than go out and be with people.
Stacey staring into her own phone taking her own picture with her pearly white teeth bared, this one taken and attached to a text reminding me to get my teeth cleaned. She always made the appointments, and kept them. She wanted me to take better care of myself. I thought she was nagging me.
Stacey lighting a candle on the dining-room table that is set for Thanksgiving, her chef apron hanging over the stemware. So serious, the pressure of her first holiday meal enormous.
Stacey in the passenger seat of her car on the drive to Pismo Beach, her hair golden and flying in the wind and the Pacific Ocean out her window. We had been fighting. This was one of those make-up trips. She was a downer, unable to summon the false enthusiasm. I don’t remember what we did for two days.
Stacey with a towel around her waist, one arm covering her breasts, shouting at me to stop it. We haven’t had sex in almost two months. This was not the way to get the ball rolling again.
Stacey leaning back on someone’s green Vespa in Santa Monica, posing with a cigarette. For the first time she looks hardened. Something in her has been lost. Is she depressed now? Really? Or was she just annoyed with me this day?
Stacey walking Henry on the path in Laurel Canyon, her floral print sundress tilting off her hips as if an invisible hand were tugging the hem, her gait tight, anxious, scurrying ahead of me.
Stacey looking up from her pillows, flat on her back, her eyes wide and her forehead lined as I stand over her taking this photo in bed, minutes after The Sex. We must have recovered somewhat. Sometimes the sex was still good. But it was like she wasn’t really there.
See them all again. Stacey happy, happy, happy, cool, sometimes surprised, sometimes chagrined, but almost always a crack of a smile, the eyes glinting with mischief. A normal girl becoming a woman. Two dozen photos, three dozen, four. Sixty, seventy photos in, the cracks begin to appear. More blank expressions than smiles. Her cheeks sucked in, her face drawn in some of the photos. In others, her normally natural white blonde hair a little off, one too many bad highlights, ashen. The forced smile. A tension in the shoulders. In later group photos, she was never quite looking at the camera. Her eyes seemed to be drifting, unfocused. It wasn’t obvious until the second pass, but a presence
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