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“Nothing. It just doesn’t look like you’re about to die of boredom.”
“If I do keel over, can I count on you to call 911?”
“It’s 110 or 112 here, actually.”
Another reminder that I’m a foreigner. But here, standing next to her, it doesn’t bother me as much that I’m so far from familiarity.
“I knew you’d be a great tour guide,” I tell her as we move on to the next painting. This one is a sunset past what looks like fishing docks, piles of gray fish blocking some of the pink-and-orange water. “So, is pointing a camera and clicking a button your favorite part of being a photographer?”
“No.”
“What is then?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“So, you stopped trying to?”
Sophia looks at me—really looks at me—the tiniest glimmer of surprise or respect appearing. I’m not sure anyone has ever stared at me this way before. I’m certain I don’t want her to stop. She glances away, refocusing on the art far too soon.
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“I think you should keep at it.”
One corner of her mouth quirks. “I think you should buy some furniture.”
I smile, then glance back at the haystack. Feeling a little less lost.
TWELVE
SOPHIA
Iinhale deeply. The early morning air tastes crisp and clean. It rained overnight, so each breath carries an undertone of damp earthiness. Sunshine filters through the canopy of leaves overhead, decorating the dirt path with patches of golden light.
I pause, pulling my phone out of my pocket and using it to snap a photo, aimed skyward. Admiring the glow of light through the leaves.
Walking here is the one form of exercise I actually enjoy. Not only is the national park, located just outside of the city limits, a beautiful place to exercise away from the hustle and bustle of traffic and commotion, but it’s also one of my favorite places to photograph. It’s where the idea of studying photography first occurred to me, wanting to capture the natural beauty of this place.
Since I’m out walking with Saylor, it hasn’t been the most relaxing pace.
The times I’ve come here with Adler have been the same way. It’s like professional athletes only have one speed.
Not only am I struggling to keep up with her, but I’m also hindered by taking photos. I’ve never brought my camera here since it cost several thousand euros and isn’t exactly lightweight. My phone is much more convenient in this circumstance. And these pictures are just for me.
When I catch up with Saylor, she smiles. “Are trees more fun to photograph than footballers?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t tell Adler because I don’t want him thinking I’ve developed an interest in football, but photographing the game wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be.”
Saylor laughs. “Your secret is safe with me.”
For the past half hour, I’ve debated confiding in her about another one.
I have no newfound interest in football…aside from a growing fascination with a football player. One that’s refused to fizzle, no matter what I tell myself.
Texting Will Aster was an impulsive, vodka-influenced decision. I’d been wanting to see the new Bavarian art exhibition at the local museum, and it’s something I knew none of my friends would want to go to. Something I doubted Will would want to do, and I was right. But he didn’t leave when I told him where we were going. Or after the first few rooms of the museum. He spent his one day off walking through countless galleries with me.
I hadn’t expected him to show up. I definitely hadn’t expected for us to spend hours together. Or for him to not ask me a single question about football or Adler.
Saylor is still setting a brutal pace. She’s on maternity leave, probably averaging a few hours of sleep a night, and she’s moving twice as fast as me.
