Even in this drunk, sweaty state, June is beautiful. She takes after our mother, tall and thin, straight black hair, her face round, her lips full. I took after our father, shorter, rounder, with wavy blond hair and brown eyes, pleasant to look at but in no way striking like my sister.

June’s never really seemed to understand how truly beautiful she is. Maybe that’s why I never resented it. If anything, I’m proud of her attractiveness—happy that I didn’t carry the burden of my mother’s good genes like she does. Blending in came more easily to me than standing out. I used to wish I could be invisible. Especially when I had a camera in my hands. Now that I am, all I want is to be seen and heard.

The memory of a night not long after June and Leo separated reveals itself. June was at my condo. She’d moved just around the corner from me, so we were always at each other’s places. Hers when the girls were at home, mine when they weren’t. It was right before our mother’s cancer diagnosis and my move back home to take care of her.

We were drinking wine, as we often did. A bold red with hints of dark chocolate and cherries. I remember because I’d give almost anything to be able to drink that wine right now, in this afterlife or whatever the hell it is.

June had had a bit too much, as had become her habit after the separation. Her lips wore a crust of purple; her cheeks were flushed from the tannins. I was at the kitchen island making a plate of cheese and crackers as she orbited the room, sliding across the slippery wood floors in her gray wool socks.

She’s always had a hard time sitting still and would do rounds of the living room looking at the photos on the walls as though she’d never seen them before.

“I can look at your work over and over and never get bored,” she used to say, when I teased her about it. “I’m always finding something new, some subtlety that I somehow missed before. You’re the best photographer I know.”

“I’m the only photographer you know,” I’d shoot back. “And I’m your sister, so you’re biased.” I wish now I’d just taken her compliment, believed her, been grateful for the encouragement that she was never short on giving. That night she stopped and stared at a photo I’d taken when I was only twelve—an up-close black-and-white of our mother. She scooped her long hair up and pulled it away from her face. “Think I could pull off a pixie cut like Mom?” she asked.

“Sure, why not?” I was only half listening, preoccupied with the stubborn vacuum-sealed plastic wrap on a block of Gouda.