Saturday, 23 August 2008

Not digital.

Out on the jetty, on a precious finger of solitude away from ice creams, running dogs and deck chairs, he held his breath. He was waiting for the exact moment when the liquid sun would run down the metal rails of rays into the dull flat plate of grey sea. Headless in the black canopy of the camera cloak, he stooped, back complaining, ready to click and catch the moment like in a scene from back in time.

Always someone behind him waiting to chat when he emerged. He knew they were there even when he was buried in the velvet darkness peeping into a stark frame of light, could sense their shy fascination. Their questions always struck him as strange and he tried not to be rude to them. But when that guy asked him was it a digital camera he wanted to throw his head back and laugh out loud.

Why did he always go home with wet feet?