Page 32 of Overexposed

“Thank you! You have fun too,” she said, patting my arm.

I watched her red cap as she caught up to her group of friends in the crowd. Eva had said the city was still so empty these days, although it was getting back to normal.

I looked around. There were groups and tourist guides in neon jackets weaving their way through the stalls selling drinks, trinkets, and food specialties. I’d heard more than five languages since coming here today, and selfies were happening at every corner. If this was empty, I didn’t want to see it flooded by the normal number of tourists. Exploring with the press of any more people would be next to impossible.

“Now you can choose not to drink it,” Auris said.

I slurped some of the beer. “But now I like it. You acted too late. I am now a mulled beer lover.”

He indicated the stall and the big metal pot containing more mulled beer, guarded by a smiling blonde. “Then we are in the right place.”

I cleared my throat. “Actually, you were right about me wanting to take photos, especially in the snow, but what would it take for me to get you to get us into the National Museum? I was thinking maybe you could carefully entrance the security people so they let us stay inside after hours?”

Auris tapped his chin with his gloved index finger. “Ethan, my sweet. That is quite an ask. You will make me carry your things for your pre-museum photography because you like having your hands free, and then you want me to give you free rein of the abandoned museum at night. It is servitude, my sweet, servitude of the highest order.”

“Nah, I’ll pay you. You could… kiss me on the mouth?”

Auris gave me an unimpressed look. And then, because he was a stylish vampire, he blew a raspberry.

I laughed so hard I would have spilled some of the beer, but luckily my tankard was half empty. A group of tourists with selfie sticks gave us -- well, me -- funny looks, but I didn’t care. Life truly was good, and I was happy. The pandemic wasn’t exactly over, but things were opening up. I was living with someone I loved, and on the Zoom call the other day, Auris had properly impressed my dad and Ben, his fiancé.

Through my outbreak, Auris kept his cool. “Will I be getting another offer, my sweet, or will you be carrying your camera bag yourself?”

I leaned against him. “Fine. You can kiss me anywhere you like.”

“That is better. Not by much. You are still getting the better deal out of this, but the cold makes me want to be generous.”

“Is that your way of saying you are too cold?”

“No,” Auris said. “It is my way of saying I am looking forward to warming you up, and then, once you are warm, I will get you naked so that I can choose all the places I want to kiss. I’m looking forward to that. It might take all night.”

“Hmm.” I finished my drink and returned the tankard. “In that case, we should get to work.” I looked around and picked a direction that appealed to me on account of how the light slanted off the façade, the windows encrusted in ice. “That way. This light is going to turn sooner rather than later. Come on.”

Auris sighed. “So demanding. Always so demanding.” He followed me, a shadow on the sidelines unless I spun and caught him in a picture, shimmering black against Prague’s white winter coat.

* * *

I missed things in the photographs that day, and Auris was too distracted by me and my enjoyment of the season to notice it either.

For an excuse, I have only the beauty of a city older than Auris. We did a few very touristy shots in front of the Astronomical Clock, which -- according to Auris -- had been restored as artists would have done five hundred years ago: making changes where none should be made, according to the modern ideals of conserving the original. He sounded mildly outraged as he pointed out the hair color change in one of the calendar images, and I caught his deep frown, then him giving my camera some side-eye.

First and foremost, I was after the buildings and the sky, after ice forming cast fortunes on the ancient cobblestone, after the river, jewel-bedecked in icicles and rime, its water sunlight-silvered. The Wenceslas Square was almost boring in its rectangular perfection, but it allowed me to capture the light: long shadows fell to our right as we made our way to National Museum that sat on one end of the square, perched there.

When sunset lit up windows and streets, the sky and frozen ground turned to shadows, and there was a frisson in seeing this shadow play happen that had me waste a few shots. I was looking forward to getting to photograph the square from the museum once we got there.

By that point, Auris was trying to hurry me along. “You would be more comfortable wearing gloves, wouldn’t you, my sweet?” he asked at the halfway mark down Wenceslas Square.

“I like working with my hands,” I said. “Photography is tactile for me.”

Ten minutes later, he tried with, “How about we stop and warm up, just for five minutes?”

I pointed vaguely at the sky. It was that lush, perfect ice-cold gray on an overcast ice-cold winter day. “Can’t. Light is fading,” I said and went for more photos.

Auris sighed. “Next time, I shall let Eva ply you with beer until you cannot hold your camera straight. Ethan, if I see any traces of frostbite on your fingers, I will sling you over my shoulder and carry you back home like a caveman. You have been warned.”

“So long as I can still hit the trigger right, I’m good,” I said, but to be fair to him, I wasn’t as precise as I liked, and Iwasgetting quite cold. But there is a thing you learn about the ephemeral arts of which photography is certainly one, even though the photos are not.

When a model turns, when they have just that look on their face, when an old cottage hidden in the woods near a seaside town reveals itself in light and darkness -- those are not moments that repeat themselves, ever. If we miss the moment, it is gone forever. Nothing will bring it back, not hoping or wishing, not even returning to the place.

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