He sinks back into the darkness, like a body half-submerged in a shallow pool, the details of his arms and his torso becoming lost to me.
We have a rhythm now. His face is relaxed and as he moves in the shadows I can finally feel the trust; like a shared joke between old friends.
He has a lot of tattoos. Maybe not a lot but more than most. My mind is elsewhere. This is good. We have a rhythm now. The moment will take care of itself.
I can’t read them all but I see “Father”, “Respect”, “Honor”, “love”, “Son”, engraved on his chest and arms, and angel wings on his shoulders. What does he want to be reminded of? What is he trying to remember? He too, is a father. This is a circumstance? Joy? Burden? Love? Responsibility…that I don’t understand. Suddenly, I realize how tenuous our connection is. We are professionals and it is the confidence in our own ability that brings peace to the room; is the beat to which our rhythm is attuned.
I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me. Yet, we are standing dangerously close to each other in a dimly lit room while one of us is missing half of his wardrobe. This moment will be mine forever. if my mind does not fail me I will remember the details of this shoot long after he has forgotten. This is always the case. It doesn’t bother me.
Thankfully, we have a rhythm now. It’s taking care of us. It’s handling things. It tells me when to move, when to make a gesture, when to give direction, when to smile, when to nod, when to adjust.
He was late. Not by much, but a little. We have to move quickly; capture what really matters. I like the focus and the efficiency.
He is aggressive, not overly so, but aggressive. I see it in his face; the looks he flashes. It’s not violent or malicious but he wants things. He wants to do things. He wants more. Carpe Diem is tattooed across his stomach. What does he want to remember?
I move to the far end of the room and watch him as he sits; darkness on all sides.
