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By Root 1241 0

were all of her: her hips, her skin, her hands, her hair. And yet she was excluded from the conversation: object, not subject. Now and then when she went into an office in Lexington, Norah would find a photo, anonymous yet eerily familiar too—some curve of her body or a place she had visited with David, stripped of its original meaning and transformed: an image of her own flesh that had become abstract, an idea. She had tried, by posing for David, to ease some of the distance that had grown between them. His fault, hers—it didn’t really matter. But watching David now, absorbed in his explanation, she understood that he did not really see her and hadn’t for years.

Anger rose up in a rush that left her trembling. She turned and walked from the room. Since the day with the wasps she had drunk very little, but now she went into the kitchen and poured herself a red plastic glass brimming with wine. All around her were dirty pots and congealing butter, the fiery red husks of lobsters like the shells of dead cicadas. Such a lot of work for such brief pleasure! Usually David did the dishes, but tonight Norah tied an apron around her waist and filled the sink and put the remaining oyster stew away in the refrigerator. In the living room the voices went on and on, rising and falling like the sea. What had she been thinking, putting on this dress, falling into Howard’s voice? She was Norah Henry, the wife of David, the mother of Paul, a son nearly grown. There were strands of gray in her hair, which she did not believe anyone could see except herself, squinting in the harsh light of the bathroom. Still, it was true. Howard had come to discuss photography with David, and that was that.

She stepped outside, carrying the garbage to the dumpster. The sand was faintly cold against her bare feet, the air as warm as her own skin. Norah walked to the edge of the ocean and stood gazing at the vivid white sweep of stars. Behind her the screen door opened and swung shut. David and Howard came out, walking through the sand and darkness.

“Thanks for cleaning up,” David said. He touched his hand briefly to her back and she tensed, making an effort not to move away. “Sorry not to help. I guess we got talking. Howard has some good ideas.”

“Actually, I was mesmerized by your arms, “Howard noted, referring to the hundreds of shots David had taken. He picked up a piece of driftwood and flung it, hard. They heard it splash and the waves licking, pulling it out to sea.

Behind them the house was like a lantern, casting a bright circle, but the three of them stood in a darkness so complete that Norah could barely see David’s face, or Howard’s, or her own hands. Only shadowy shapes and disembodied voices in the night. The conversation meandered, circling back to technique and process. Norah thought she might scream. She put one bare foot behind the other, meaning to turn and leave, when suddenly a hand brushed her thigh. She paused, startled. Waiting. In a moment Howard’s fingers ran lightly up the seam of her dress, and then his hand was slipping inside her pocket, a sudden secret warmth against her flesh.

Norah held her breath. David talked on about his pictures. She was still wearing the apron, and it was very dark. After a moment she made a slight turn, and Howard’s hand flowered open against the thin cloth, the flatness of her stomach.

“Well, that’s true,” Howard said, his voice low and easy. “You’d sacrifice something in clarity if you were to use that filter. But the effect would certainly be worth it.”

Norah let her breath out, slowly, slowly, wondering if Howard could feel the wild rapid pulsing of her blood. Warmth radiated from his fingers; she was filled with such yearning that she ached. The waves rose and eased away and rose again. Norah stood very still, listening to the rush of her own breath.

“Now, with the camera obscura you’re one step closer to the process,” Howard said. “It’s really quite remarkable, the way it frames the world. I wish you’d come by and see it. Will you?” he asked.

“I’m taking Paul deep-sea fishing tomorrow,