Page 57 of Let's Talk About Love
“It feels weird. My mom is like you. She takes pictures of everything. She always says, ‘When I’m old and lose my memories, pictures are all I’m gonna have,’ which is the most horrid thing ever. It guilt-trips me right into posing for a picture.”
“Good to know.” He smiled.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He laughed. “Why don’t you like pictures of yourself?”
“It’s not that I don’t. I just don’t want them to spread. Like once it hits the Internet ether, you have zero control over it. It’s gone. Someone else can use your face and your body however they want, and I don’t like that.”
“Use instant film.” He shrugged. “No negatives. Every picture you take will be one of a kind, as long as you don’t scan it or something.”
“Oh,” she said, thinking about it. “That could work.”
“Now stop bothering me.” He grinned. “I need to finish this tonight.”
Alice stuck her tongue out at him and resumed flipping the pages. Takumi had gone to prom and looked amazing in his tuxedo. He’d played basketball and football in high school. He’d gone to summer camp. He’d shaved his head. He’d competed in and won bicycle races. He’d gone to the beach often. He’d eaten pizza a lot. He’d driven speedboats and water-skied. He’d gone to Las Vegas. He could snowboard.
Alice sucked in a breath. He also liked to take pictures while kissing. She steeled herself—the pictures weren’t vulgar, but they were hard to stomach for some reason. From what she could gather, Takumi didn’t have a “type.” All the girls she saw so far were different races, shapes, and heights. Some had average looks, others were conventionally attractive, and quite a few were model-worthy. She figured out if there were a lot of pictures of one girl in particular, they must have dated a long time.
She stopped flipping the pages to stare at him.
Back when Alice had lived in the dorms, there was a girl, Sharon, who was obsessed with online dating.
Some of the girls from Alice’s hall would sit in the common room, eating ice cream and scrolling through profiles for fun. It was fine at first, until another girl, Janice, suggested they play a game. They would all make profiles and see who got the most messages.
Alice could still remember that sense of dread that began to eat at her when Sharon turned and stared at her for a few seconds too long. “You’re super cute, Alice,” she had said, “but you’re probably going to lose, so don’t be too disappointed.”
“Why would she lose?” another girl asked.
“Because she’s Black. Black girls and Asian guys are always rankedthe lowest on dating sites. I saw it in an interview with a guy who owns a dating app.”
Through it all, being demeaned and feeling disheartened and dispirited, Alice was expected to benice. To overlook the microaggressions when they continuously rained down on her and find solidarity wherever she could. She was expected to endure in silence.
And so she did. She wastired, but she wasn’t out.
She had smiled, flipped her braids over her shoulder, and said with more confidence than she felt, “We’ll see about that.” As long as she didn’t have to go on dates, she was willing to play.
(AND SHE GOT SECOND PLACE.)
(Not even an act of God could stop her from gloating in Sharon’s face.)
(It was one of her pettier moments.)
Judging by his photos, Takumi didn’t seem to have any problems getting dates either. With his height and face, he often looked like he was waiting for a flash and a shutter click before effortlessly gliding into another flawless pose. Vulnerability thinly masked by sharp angles and high-fashion arrogance.
She couldn’t fathom anyone ever turning him down.
Soon, though, only one girl showed up in the photos. A lot.A lota lot. She appeared in the second half of that particular album almost more than Takumi did. They weren’t always together in the pictures, and if they were, it was a group photo.
Alice thought she was pretty. She had a body like a stereotypical ballerina: pale skin, very thin with a long neck and limbs. Her dyed-blue hair was cut into a blunt bob that slowly grew out (while her black roots grew in) in each new picture.
Closing that album, she picked up the next one, flipping rapid-fire through the pictures. Takumi on stage in front of a mic. Takumi in a suit. The girl. Takumi with his guitar and headphones on. Takumi withblond hair. The girl, again. Takumi in Times Square. She was there. Takumi sitting on a couch with his arm around her. Takumi with a blond Mohawk. Takumi in the backseat of a car looking out the window. Takumi camping. She was there, too.
Near the end of the album, it happened: Takumi and the girl kissing.
“Wow, you’re real fond of that whole kissing thing.”
“And you’re not?”
