We Only Kiss in Other People's Photos

How it begins

In the first photograph, Ivo was kissing his forehead.

In the second, Jonas had a hand on Ivo's waist.

In the third, there was no sensible explanation at all.

Jonas arranged them on the café table.

Ivo looked down.

"Nice light."

"That isn't the issue."

"The horizon's crooked."

"Ivo."

His oldest friend put down his cup.

Outside, workers were hanging banners for the photography festival. Jonas had agreed to contribute six pictures about belonging. He had expected boats, balconies, and possibly a dog.

Instead, the curator had found these.

"She wants us to recreate them."

"Why?"

"Apparently the series has emotional continuity."

Ivo smiled.

Jonas disliked how much he liked the smile.

"The first one was a joke," Ivo said.

"Yes."

"The second was because you slipped."

"Yes."

They looked at the third.

Behind them, a waitress placed two pastries on the table without asking which belonged to whom.

Jonas moved the almond one toward Ivo.

Neither noticed until the waitress had gone.

"We could say no," Ivo said.

"To the photographs?"

"Yes."

Jonas picked up the third image.

A stranger had taken it on a ferry crossing. He remembered the wind, the engine, Ivo laughing at something he had said.

He did not remember moving closer.

He remembered wanting the crossing to last longer.

"Do you think they're misleading?"

Ivo looked toward the harbor.

That was new.

Usually he met a difficult question with a joke before Jonas could decide whether he meant it.

"About what?" he asked.

The café door opened. A family came in carrying rain on their coats, talking over one another.

Jonas waited until the noise settled.

"Us."

Ivo turned back.

For a few seconds, neither man reached for a cup, a photograph, or a better subject.

Then Ivo moved the third picture between them.

"I think," he said, "we should remember it properly before we try doing it again."