“That makes me sound sad,” Doyle said over the water.
“No. That wasn’t what I meant to imply. I’m pointing out that your personal values don’t align with the casual, nonexclusive, antirelationship sentiment that has come to dominate much of the LGBT community, making those of us wanting to settle down feel rather like outsiders.” Larkin waved a hand and redirected himself. “Not that I’m suggesting we settle down. What I mean is, when I’m interested in a man, I commit myself entirely to him. And you do the same. So this, by its very definition, can’t be casual.”
Doyle turned off the tap. “I just want you to be safe, Evie. I don’t ever want to be the cause of you getting hurt.”
“Hurt is inevitable,” Larkin answered. “Whether on purpose or by accident. It’s best to acknowledge that in the beginning.”
“That’s rather pessimistic.”
“Realistic,” Larkin corrected.
Doyle set the tank on the counter and filled it with stabilizer solution.
“I know I’m a mess,” Larkin said into the unsettled silence. “I know that being caught in the middle of a divorce must be, at the very least, awkward for you. I know that my inability to never entirely be over men I’ve loved before meeting you will undoubtably cause upset. I know that I come with considerable baggage and that it can be, at times, too much. And if I’ve not successfully supplied enough reasons for you to doubt your interest in me….”
Doyle laughed, very quietly, under his breath while pouring out the final chemical. He turned around and studied Larkin in the otherworldly light.
“I’m not sure how easy it will be, given that we’ve set a precedent for working together professionally, but in eighteen years, I’ve never been happy having HSAM. Until now. Because I don’t ever want to forget how you make me feel.”
“That’s arguably one of the most romantic things anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I have my moments,” Larkin answered, his voice still its ever-consistent monotone.
Doyle wiped his hands on his apron as he approached Larkin. He leaned down and gave him a sweet and simple kiss. “Okay,” he whispered.
“Okay yes, or okay no,” Larkin asked, just as quiet.
Doyle smiled and kissed Larkin a second time. “Okay yes.” He returned to the counter, spent a moment unfurling the film, giving it a final rinse in distilled water, and then flicking the regular overhead lights on. Doyle killed the safelight and asked, “Check that cabinet beside you for a magnifying glass?”
Larkin opened the doors of what turned out to be an entirely overstuffed storage locker. “I found the women’s softball team jerseys they reported as missing last summer.”
“There’s also a twenty-four pack of salt and pepper shakers for the breakroom in there,” Doyle said. “The magnifying glass should be on the second shelf from the bottom.”
“Why isn’t the salt and pepper in the breakroom,” Larkin asked as he crouched and rummaged through a stack of unopened printing paper, photo paper, padded Flat Rate envelopes, loose binder clips, and a half-empty box of Lipton tea bags, which Larkin made a face at, before finding the magnifying glass pushed all the way to the back.
“I think they’re being hidden. A detective in Major Cases comes down to the fifth floor to borrow our salt and he never returns it.”
“Lieutenant Connor leaves aggressive Post-its on the fridge, and that seems to be enough when it comes to the protection of publicly traded condiments.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call the Forensic Artists Unit intimidating,” Doyle answered.
Larkin made a sound in the back of his throat, something that had both a note ofobviouslyandyou don’t say?, before standing in front of Doyle. Doyle held the strip up to the light and Larkin set the magnifying glass before each individual frame. Not only were the pictures thumbnail in size, but the coloring of the developed film was inverted and muted, with far less contrast than what the finished products would offer after printing. But Larkin didn’t have the patience to wait until the film was ready for that process sometime tomorrow, so he squinted at the magnified images and waited as his brain broke down and processed all the pieces of the scene.
“You know what else Susan Sontag said about photography?” Doyle asked.
“What’s that.”
“That every picture is a memento mori. ‘To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s mortality.’”
“How do you think.”
“Well, when you take a picture, you essentially steal a second of the sitter’s life—freezing it for all time. And when they’re gone, that image still remains. It is, for all intents and purposes, a memento of someone’s death.”
“That is a startlingly simplistic view on the subject matter.”
“Isn’t most philosophy rather simplistic, once you break it down?” Doyle countered.
Larkin took a small step to the right as he studied the next few negative frames. “Nothing is more corruptible than an artist,” he quoted under his breath. “They’re in service to the ascetic ideal—a conflict which wills itself to beconflicting. It is a will against the very life that has created him—the artist finds satisfaction in pain and ugliness.”
