Just Press Click

It’s the taste of him she can’t ignore. That trace of sweat and dirt as she nestles her nose in between his shoulder blades, slipping her knee behind his calf, heel over shin; wrapping around him like she means it. It doesn’t work. She inhales the dense, heady aroma of their sleep while the inside of her lip presses and pulls down against his skin. The taste of home makes her gag a little. She tries to clean it away with a gulp from the old water bottle sat condensing in the corner followed by a swift slug round her gums with her tongue. No luck. She untwines herself and pushes him awake, crawling out of their zipped-up bag and opening the tent in one, fluid movement, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, as she shifts her weight from knee to knee. It’s early, she whispers gently, the way he would do, if he was waking her. Let’s do it like we said. He looks up at her, his eyelids slowly falling then jerking wide. He’s so slow, she thinks, he takes so long. He turns over and tuts his sleep-dry mouth before smiling and shuffling himself free.

Stella breathes deep and tries to forget as she points the camera, her fingertip tracing the raised rim of the shutterstop. It’s better out here she thinks, away from the sleep smell – it’s easier. She stretches out her hand and flexes her fingers, visually tapping him over to the left, along the coast path to a better composition. He willingly obliges.

Everything is fine she thinks, everything is fine, we’re just taking a photo, making the most of the morning. She taps him a little back to where he was. He obediently takes two steps right. She stops still – her hand hanging in the air in front of her, bejewelled and sparkling in the early morning light. She cocks her head away from the camera and flexes her ring finger, throwing tiny prisms into space. He watches her – his own arms limp and loose, confusion flits across his face briefly before contorting to smother a yawn and hide his desire for the comforting warmth of the inner-tent and their crumpled ‘making up’ bed.

It’s distracting me, thinks Stella squinting at the colours dancing faintly in the dead space between them. The camera is left swinging redundant by her side as she looks past her hand to the man patiently waiting metres away, ready to move this way or that; however she wants. She closes her eyes so he won’t see, then rolls them. Rolls them for herself. He would do anything for me anything at all.

The gag comes back. It pushes into the back of her throat, forcing her head forward with the pressure. She swallows a slow, thick swallow, places her palm back under the black metal body of the camera and measures its weight in her wrist before pulling it back up to her line of vision, focusing in on him. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. She looks at his face. His smooth cheeks and clear eyes, his sharp jawline and taut forehead. Rays splay out from behind his body threatening to silhouette him from view. He’s just younger than me, that’s all it is, she thinks as she flits her eye away to the cliff edge and sea beyond him. He doesn’t really know what he wants. But why not? At 25 I knew. I was Stella of aspiration, Stella of opportunity, of late night debates, of political ideals, of changing the world, saving the world, ruling the world. Stella takes a step forward so he fills more of the frame. It’s too much. She can’t see round him. She takes a step back.

Why doesn’t he want any of that? Why doesn’t he want to be out there now, painting bright colours like I was, like I wanted to, like I want to. Why is he with me, here now. Why am I with him? The fear rises up in her again and she can’t swallow it down this time so it just sits, aching her jaw and making her fingers twitch.

The morning chill tickles her shoulders, lifts her hair high, billows out her t-shirt to flap around her waist. Fresh air, she sighs, that’s what it was – that’s what he was; everything was so loud, so brash, so hot back then, everything except him. He was what I needed, what I need. What I needed. She smooths her hands down her sides to stop the breeze from getting in.
He was what I needed.

The sun is rising quickly and light is slicing through under his arms, splitting his legs apart, thinning his hair. She squints at him and smiles, smiles with her mouth shut - no teeth and it’s not a lie - no teeth and it doesn’t have to mean I am happy, she thinks. He looks old, the sun is making him look older; weaker and older and exactly the same, with no fire and no excitement and no anger and no frustration. His fragility excited her in the beginning, the wide eyes, the intense silences, like every breath he took might actually be his last. It seemed dangerous somehow, being with him, so different from everyone else. She focuses the lens on him as he stands still - staring, calm, mute; almost not there. She strains to hear his breathing, listens hard then zooms the lens in on his chest to search for a rise and fall. Like she used to, looking for his next breath, waiting for it to happen, back when it thrilled her, back when it made the hairs stand up. It comes. There’s the breath she whispers to herself. Her hairs don’t move.

That doesn’t have to mean anything, thinks Stella, none of this has to mean anything. He is good for me, we are good for each other, he’s comfortable. She smoothes her hand over her arm so the hairs brush backwards, sort of stand up.
She breathes back at him, rise and fall, trying to mean it again, then raises a thumbs up, preparing to take the perfect picture. I can breathe too, she thinks, I can breathe like you, I can go on breathing like this – it’s not hard, he’s not hard work, we’re not hard work. And anyway I chose this. I chose to settle down, to walk away, to say yes, I chose yes. But her jaw is so heavy and her head is so full that she can’t move. Her finger stutters over the shutter, hovering still, refusing to bend down, refusing to press the trigger, refusing to says ’yes this is a lovely holiday, a lovely morning, a lovely us’.

Stella’s closes her eyes and lets her spine crumple, her left hip taking all her weight as her head and shoulders hang low. She swallows and swallows and swallows but it doesn’t work, there are too many thoughts inside her and they she can’t keep them down, so they rise up and spill out, silently dribbling down her cheeks. Click, she splutters to herself, click. Click.

She drops the camera back down to her side, stands up straight and nods at him, wiping away the telltale signs from her face. He blinks lazily then nods back. Slowly his arms fall into a rhythm propelling him towards her steadily, pace after pace after pace.

His hands swing forward and his fingers spread apart as he approaches, ready to take her shoulder, her waist, to hold on to her tightly , like he always does. Stella shakes. She looks down at her feet to steady herself, her feet crammed into the beaten up fur boots that she always wears when they do this sort of thing, boots that do the job but that don’t even suit her, never have. She raises her head and tries her hardest to smile again, this time with teeth in it, this time with truth in it. Her lips crack under the pressure.

His hands are close now and soon they’ll feel her clammy skin through the t-shirt which just won’t stop flapping and he’ll know she’s uncomfortable, he’ll know something’s not right. But he won’t ask, he won’t acknowledge it. He never does. He’ll just grip tight and hold on, gently but relentlessly drawing her in to him and refusing to let her go.

‘What’s it like?’ his voice is low and thick with sleep, his mouth still tutting as his tongue moves. Stella breathes deep. She holds the camera out, her hand shaking with the pressure until his fingers clamp around it pulling it up to his ribcage, slowly pressing buttons to find the shot.

She leans in and kisses him; his lips feel slack and wet and he draws back from her a little as she pushes against him. His eyes are shut. Stella’s are open. He tastes salty, and sleepy and homely and wrong, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter if she tastes him now.