Photographer

The door bell rings, a quick and punfunctory sound. Addison isn’t used to the crispness yet, her old apartment a decrepit Victorian with a buzzer that sounded like an unholy gospel through the halls whenever someone had the misfortune of pressing it. She gets up off the floor, leaving the box of books half unpacked and trots to the door. The tile is cold when her feet leave the carpet and is a brief relief from the unrelenting heat. A vague hope her fans are in the next bin she unloads but, until then, opening all her windows will have to do. She peers through the peep hole and sees a plain package sitting on the welcome mat.

Perplexed, she opens the door and sucks the new box in, inspecting it for any sign of what’s inside. She hasn’t ordered anything to this new address yet, in fact not many people even know she lives there. Rotates the box in her hands and doesn’t find a label, just a thick piece of twine tying a bow on top. A small (admittedly pathetic) hope at the back of her mind it might be from Thom; but he wasn’t the type for grand romantic gestures and he had made it fairly clear last time they talked he wasn’t going to see her again.

Even so, she plops on the ground and rips the paper open. Her thumb catches along an edge and flays open, a small paper cut that shoots sudden pain up her finger. She gasps and sticks the offending appendage in her mouth, pressing her tongue against the cut and using her other hand to finish tearing the package open.

Sitting in the cardboard box is a shoebox that is also tied closed with the same twine, an unfamiliar script drawing a heart on the lower right corner. Her mouth sours, a lemon puckering at the acceptance that this was definitely not Thom, his habits too messy to put a box neatly within another box (the nice packaging should have been a clue), and likely meant for the former tenant.

Addison knows she should stop there, whatever is inside the shoebox is not meant for her. The shakily drawn heart a proclamation for another person that didn’t care enough to leave a forwarding address.

This is ultimately what drives her to pull the string, laying bare the package like a woman dropping her robes. Curiosity around the apathy of leaving when someone cares enough to leave gifts at your door. She tenderly lifts the lid and peers inside. A thick folded piece of paper lays on top of what looks like a collection of photos, mostly Polaroids, a few printed ones. An assortment of knickknacks, little ceramic miniatures, ticket stubs and pins. She pulls out the note and, even though she can hear her mother screaming in her head how rude she is for prying, opens it and begins to read.

My dearest love,

I feel compelled to return these to you, the pain too deep to keep them even if the memories are sweet. I hope you are well and thriving.

-L

Addison sets the paper down and peers inside the box. The photo on top is a woman at a concert wearing low riding jeans and a strappy crop top. Her thick curly brown hair, wild and splayed against her raised arms as she screams into the crowd. She’s beautiful and Addison looks miserably at her long pale hair, trying not to feel jealous at this gorgeous mystery girl. The next photo is the same woman at an ice cream stand, her painted mouth laughing as ice cream drips down her elbow, tongue caught mid journey to lick it off. Another photo of her sitting on a park bench feeding birds.

Addison wonders who this mystery ‘L’ is and starts to paw through the box trying to find a picture of them together.

But its just the girl. Through the window of a diner with friends, sleeping peacefully in the room Addision just moved her bed into. One of her looking distressed in a car. A stone settles into Addison’s stomach as she rips through all the photos, every one of them taken at a distance and seemingly without this woman’s knowledge.

Addison takes a small ceramic cat, barely the width of two of her fingers, and holds it up to the light. She wonders where L got it from, if he took it from this girl’s room while photographing her or bought it thinking she would like it. She feels sick and throws the miniature back as though it suddenly got the ability to bite.

In one sweeping motion, Addison quickly throws all the photos back in the box, like she can hurriedly unopen this knowledge of the former tenant and her mystery stalker. Her hands burn with trepidation as she plops the lid back on and forces herself to take a breath. Considers calling the police but doesn’t know if they would care about a girl who left. Addison doesn’t even know her name or if she fled due to this relentless photographing. Maybe it was a coincidence that she is gone and the photos are here but a gut feeling tells Addison otherwise.

She puts the box next to the hinges of her door, like she can shove it back there forever and forget she ever trespassed into it. She gets up and goes to the kitchen sink to wash her hands, purge her discomfort. Squirts pale pink soap into her hands and begins scrubbing.

Hears the click of a camera, a whirring of a Polaroid printing. Looks through her open window and sees nothing.