The Cuban strode toward us with a sheaf of black-and-white photos clutched in one hand.

Did he recognize me?

“Armando’s got the studio next to mine,” Rudy our ever-cordial host explained, throwing one arm around the Cuban and pulling him closer to us.

I remembered the decal of the crossed American and Cuban flags stuck on the window of the place next door. I put my hand out to the man. Reluctantly he took it and gave it one weak, damp shake.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” I asked.

“Have you?” he returned, not taking his eyes from mine. His voice was husky, flat, accented.

“Outside the Federal Building this morning at a demonstration about Central America.”

“Caramba, Armando,” Rudy exclaimed, dropping his arm and drawing back to look at his friend with concern. “You didn’t go to one of those demonstrations again, did you? You know they just get you all upset. Your doctor told you you’re not supposed to get worked up like that.”

“Are those the photos you took this morning?” I asked, unable to make my voice sweet or wily.

He didn’t answer. Although he made no move to show me the photos he held in his hand, I could see they were pictures of the crowd in front of the Federal Building. I wondered if I was in any of his pictures.

“May I?” I extended my hand toward him. His hand with the photos dangled at his side. He didn’t want to show them to me.

“Yeah, let’s see what you got there. More of those radicals and freakos?” Rudy leaned past me and took the pictures from the Cuban’s hand.

Rudy studied the first photo quickly. “You try some of that new Fuji film I told you about? It’s got great resolution, doesn’t it?”

In the photo I saw the west steps of the Federal Building. I recognized several of the people I had seen at the demonstration.

Rudy flipped to the second photo. “Hey, that’s you,” he said, turning to me and pointing out a woman standing at the edge of the crowd.

I looked. It was me. My blue-and-white pinstriped seersucker suit looked baggy on me. My hair was blowing in the wind. I was staring almost directly into the camera, a frown making me look older. Around me were the demonstrators. A newsman was caught walking past me with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“You were using that new 125 telephoto, weren’t you?” Rudy flipped quickly through the rest of the photos, stopping only to tap the picture of a short, dark-haired woman. “Whoo, look at the chichis on that little ruca. Oops, sorry,” he said to me.

“Why did you take these pictures? What do you do with them?” I asked the Cuban. My face felt flushed. I couldn’t suppress the anger I felt.