“It’s a darkroom,” she whispers, turning in a slow circle to gaze up at the photographs hanging on the clotheslines suspended from the walls. Most of the images are from Fall Fest, but I have a few from a recent shoot in Austin, and there are a couple of Mom and Dad from an old roll of film I found at their place.
I’ve never been nervous about people seeing my work, even in its rawest stage, but something about having Jade here makes me feel strangely vulnerable.
“Disappointed?” I ask.
She laughs as she tilts a photograph of Main Street toward her. “Only a little.”
Note to self: Turn Harringtons restaurant next door into a sex dungeon ASAP.
She moves on to the photo of the little girl with the melted ice cream, probably my second favorite from that roll. “I didn’t realize people still use darkrooms,” Jade says.
Shooting digitally does make more sense than doing it this way, but I love the nostalgia of having a darkroom and the rush of excitement when you finally develop the negatives. It was probably a waste of money installing the door since I’m leaving in a few months, but I can take it with me when I go.
“I edit most of my pictures in Photoshop like the rest of the world, but still shoot in black and white with my 35mm camera whenever I can,” I explain. “There’s something thrilling about having to wait to see if you got the shot versus the instant gratification of digital photography.”
She glances at me from over her shoulder. “So you’re not into instant gratification?”
What is it with all the innuendos tonight? Is she trying to kill me? My gaze lingers on her plush mouth before I drag my eyes back to hers. “I never said that. But I can be patient and don’t mind working for it.”
Her smile broadens. “Good to know.”
“You want to give it a go?”
“I assume you mean print a picture,” she says with a laugh.
“I mean whatever you think I mean.” We could turn this into a sex dungeon instead if that’s what she wants. I have a tie in my bedroom, and she has wrists made for tying up.
“I’d love to print a picture,” Jade says. “What do I do?”
So that’s a no on the dungeon? I shake away my lingering lewd thoughts and focus on photography because that sounds likesomuch more fun than peeling away every piece of her clothing under these red lights.
I’m kind of sorry that I don’t have any film to develop, so I’d have an excuse to turn off the lights and fumble around “looking” for what I need, finding Jade’s body instead. All that’s left now is printing. Since I already have the aperture and time settings figured out for this roll, all the tedious steps are out of the way.
“First, you’ll need some paper.” I pull out an 8 x 10 from the black container that’s meant to keep light from reaching the photosensitive sheets and hand it to Jade. “Put this on the enlarger’s baseboard right there.”
“I assume the enlarger is this fancy microscope thing?” she asks, taking the paper from me.
“You assume correct, Little Jade.”
After shooting me a cute scowl for that nickname, she follows my instructions and waits while I hold the negative up to the light to find the perfect photo.Bingo. I slide the negative in place and wait to hear what Jade has to say when she sees it.
“Fifteen seconds of exposure should be perfect.” I point to the red switch on the side. “Press that when I say go.” I get the timer ready and count down from three.
When I give the cue, Jade presses the button and the enlarger bursts to life, projecting the close-up photo I took of her at her festival booth, smiling at a customer. It’s not one of those fake smiles either—the ones where you can tell people are saying “cheese.” Jade looks genuinely happy, her eyes crinkly and sparkling as she clutches one of those hideous sculptures.
She gasps. “When did you take this?”
“Fall Fest, when you weren’t looking.” I glance at the timer. “Okay, turn it off in three, two, one…”
The white light shuts off, leaving us bathed in red once more.
“Now, put the paper in the developer there and tilt the tray back and forth. Gently, or else you’ll—”
Jade rocks the plastic tray filled with liquid. She curses when a bunch of it spills over the edge onto the newspaper-covered table.
“Or else you’ll slop it all over,” I mutter with a laugh.
She winces. “Sorry.”
