He was tired but he was still kind. His deep voice, although mostly soft, remained audible - at least whenever he spoke. The nights were always silent and awkward. Two strangers in one bed, one past, with two views. I cannot say what her mind was thinking, but in the cold, dark silence, her voice severed the blackness like a knife unto a vein:
Why do you photograph?
Smiles smiled in darkness cannot be seen. He smiled, remembering that there was once when they weren't strangers and one bed was adequate. When views weren't different and two morning teas were made the same way. When Sainsburys was filled with laughter and space did not exist beneath the duvet. But her question was literal and innocent. She always had a way of asking the most innocent of questions without much thought and he always had a way striking meaning from the simplest things. He stirred, like the struggling first motion of an old train put to service. Languidly.
Things don't always remain beautiful in this world, he said. I like to capture them when they are.
He struck meaning. Again.