Always photographed wearing black.
His images were moody street scenes, fashion portraits, abandoned buildings.
He had about sixty thousand followers.
Enough to look important.
Not enough that I had ever heard of him.
“He was at the gallery.”
Sarah said.
“We talked for like an hour.”
“Good networking?”
“More than networking.”
She immediately saw my face.
“Not like that.”
“I mean creatively.”
“He actually understands what I’m trying to do.”
That sentence meant nothing then.
Later, I would remember it.
Alex began appearing in conversation.
Casually at first.
Alex knew a curator.
Alex recommended a lens.
Alex hated digital retouching.
Alex had photographed in Berlin.
Alex had once lived in Mexico City for six months with only two shirts.
That last fact seemed unnecessary.
I joked:
“Sounds hygienic.”
Sarah did not laugh.
“He’s committed.”
“To shirts?”
“To art.”
I shrugged.
“Okay.”
The comparisons began several weeks later.
I was working from home after a hospital network issue had kept me up most of the previous night.
Sarah sat at the dining table editing photographs.
“Alex says creatives get trapped by comfortable lives.”
I looked over.
“What does that mean?”
“People get jobs.”
“Mortgages.”
“Schedules.”
“Then suddenly they’re too afraid to take risks.”
“Sounds like something a man with rich parents would say.”
Sarah frowned.
“You don’t know anything about him.”
“I know he has a warehouse loft downtown.”
“Those are not cheap.”
“He earns money from art.”
“Great.”
She turned back to her laptop.
“You always reduce everything to money.”
That caught me.
“I work extra weekends so you don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Then what does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Forget it.”
I did.
That became another mistake.
A healthy relationship cannot survive on one person repeatedly saying forget it and the other agreeing.
A month later:
“Alex thinks I should quit the café completely.”
“You work there two days a week.”
“It drains me.”
“Then quit if you can replace the income.”
Sarah stared.
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“What?”
“You always need everything calculated.”
“Because rent enjoys calculation.”
She pushed back from the table.
“You don’t understand a creative life.”
I tried to keep my voice light.
“I understand groceries.”
“That’s the problem.”
“What problem?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
Again.
Forget it.
Again.
By winter, her phone rarely left her hand.
She changed the passcode.
That bothered me.
Not because partners must share passwords.
We never had a rule about that.
But Sarah had previously handed me her phone without thinking.
Now if she walked into the bathroom, it went with her.
If I entered a room unexpectedly, she flipped it facedown.
Messages arrived at midnight.
She smiled at screens.
Then caught herself smiling.
I noticed.
Of course I noticed.
I asked once.
“Is that Alex?”
“What?”
“You smiled.”
“I’m not allowed to smile at my phone?”
“That isn’t what I said.”
She sighed.
“We’re talking about a shoot.”
“At midnight?”
“He’s in Los Angeles this week.”