“I know.” I watch the movie of her twitching hands.

“The newer film doesn’t fully develop for, like, thirty minutes sometimes.” She balances the picture on the tips of her fingers, showing off.

I ask, “How long has it been now?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t timing it. I used to pocket pictures right away or stick them in my bag because sometimes it would make cool scratches and effects.”

“When can I look?”

She peers at the photo, for the first time as far as I can tell. “All right, now if you want.”

I hold out a hand. She drops the picture into my palm. The image of me standing in front of the fireplace is washed out but coming together, colors coalescing. There’s a white blob above my head, though the longer I stare, it gains or grows a light-blue tint.

“Did you see me do it?” she asks.

“Do what?” I say, even though I know what she means.

“I pressed my thumb against the film, really quick, right when it came out. Did you see me?”

I did not see either of her thumbs scorpion out and press against the film. I ask, “How come there aren’t any lines or swirls from your thumbprint?”

“I used the side of my thumb, not the pad.”

“No. Your thumb never touched. I never saw your thumb touch.”

“You didn’t see it because I’m quick and I’m good. Years and years of practice,” she says. “I can show you, teach you, if you want. You’ll have to buy your own camera though.”

I toss the photo at her. It dodges her torso and fighter-planes behind her, death spiraling onto a chair. I turn and walk out of the room, toward the front door. I don’t know what I’m doing. I never have.

“Where are you going?”

“Out. To get some chips.”

“No, you’re not. Really? Art. Hey, you’re upset. I know, and I’m sorry. Stay and let’s talk some more, yeah?”

I say, “I won’t be long,” which is a lie, even if I don’t yet know how much of a lie it is. I snatch my car keys hanging from the rack on the wall next to the front door.

“Don’t you need your jacket?” she asks from the living room. She is not following me, not stopping me.

I open the door and pause for a moment. I say, “No. I don’t think I do.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

I wait for her to say something else to stop me, to keep me. Nothing. Then I hear a rustle and a flourish, and I don’t need the house in my head to know she picked up her green jacket off the floor.

She says, “Hey, where is your jacket? I didn’t see you move it. Neat trick!”

Your jacket was on the floor under mine. But I wanted you to come back to look for it. I wanted you to stay.

* * *