“I’ve got to run,” he said, standing abruptly.
I stood, too, the metal of my chair grating against the stones. “Thank you,” I said. “For breakfast, and for letting me off the boat.”
Theo quirked a brow at that. “I didn’t grant you any kind of permission you didn’t already have. You’re free to leave the boat any time you’d like. I’m not your master, Miss Dawn.” Then, he pressed his palms on the table, leaning toward me with a wicked grin. “Though, if there was ever a time you wanted to change that, I would be happy to oblige.”
All the blood drained from my face, a shiver sending a flood of goosebumps cascading down every inch of me. I was frozen from his gaze, from those words, for what felt like an eternity.
Then, Theo laughed — and it was the most confusing laugh of my life. I couldn’t tell if it was because he’d been joking and the look on my face was exactly the response he was looking for, or if he was dead serious, and he was laughing because he was the only one who knew just how serious he was.
“Have fun today,” he said, standing straight once more and sliding his sunglasses over those piercing eyes. “If you can, make your way to the Château de Bellet vineyards. It’s beautiful there.”
And with one last knowing smirk, he left me alone with our half-eaten breakfast.
For many people, perhaps most people, a photograph is simple.
It’s a moment captured in time. It’s a beautiful landscape — sprawling hills or glistening ocean. It’s an action shot — a ball mid-air, a player’s face bent in determination. It’s a milestone — a graduation, a wedding, a newborn baby. It’s a click of a button, a flash-freeze, a bit of light and shadow that serve as a memory, something to be hung on a wall, something to look back on and remember.
For me, a photograph was an entire world.
If you caught the right moment, the right lighting, the right subject — a photograph wasn’t just a mirror image. It was a feeling, something that struck you to your core, something that made you pause and reflect. You’d look at it just as much as it would look at you — each of you tilting your heads a bit, digesting, feeling vulnerable.
Feeling seen.
I wandered the streets of Nice with eyes wide open, taking each turn as it came, not abiding by any agenda or map. I held my camera close, nestled between my hands just below my rib cage, finger hovering over the shutter button, itching for the right moment.
When I had a day to myself like that, the hours seemed to dissipate like thick morning fog on a sunny afternoon. I didn’t exist as myself. I wasn’t Aspen Dawn, recent college graduate and wannabe photographer. Instead, I lived a hundred different lives, all through the lens of my camera.
I was the young girl on her brand-new bike, no training wheels, fear and excitement evident in my eyes as I took a breath, took my feet off the ground, took a chance. And I was the kind-eyed, old man behind her, cigarette dangling from my lips as I gave one final push, the wrinkles of my eyes deepening with a wide smile when the girl sped off on her own, giggling with joy.
Click.
I was the street vendor selling leather coin purses and keychains, exhausted from an early morning of setting up shop, sneaking a brief snooze at my table while I waited for a customer. My head hung heavy between my shoulders, old t-shirt pulled up over my eyes, tan and hairy arms crossed over my large belly. I could just be meditating. I could just be tired. I could just be mourning the loss of someone I loved more than myself. I could just be wondering if life is worth living at all.
Click.
I was both the young man and the old woman, sitting back to back on opposing benches by the sea, one facing the park, one facing the water. We were strangers together in our loneliness. We were strangers, and yet to someone, we were friends, lovers, a son, a daughter, a co-worker, a neighbor. We were strangers, and yet inside each of us, an entire universe of humanity — a forest of wants and needs, of dreams and desires, of past pain and scars and heartbreak and resilience. We read our newspapers. We check our phones. We smile at the passerby and tip our hat. Bonjour, bonjour.
Click.
I was even the blushing young girl, legs straddling the sea wall, a boy I rather liked sliding closer and closer between my open legs. I felt the heat of his hungry eyes, felt the cool dampness of his fingertips dancing under my shirt, tracing the wire of my bra. We’re invisible. No one sees us. No one in the world has been this in love, this desperate to touch, this unimaginably happy. I knew without hesitation that I would forever be safe in that boy’s arms. No matter how my heart screamed for me to be cautious, to heed its warnings, I still fell into the boy with the long, dark shaggy hair and the cool hands and the thick erection hiding beneath his jeans.
Click.
I was lost in a new city, in a new country, in a new language and corner of the world. I wandered the streets and took photos until the sun disappeared over the water’s horizon, and I realized Theo and I never discussed what time to meet back on the dock.
Then I asked myself why I thought Theo would meet me at all.
He wasn’t my caretaker. Or, as he had pointed out, my master.
I
