Double Exposure by Michael Lister Page A

him, in a black Mustang Shelby GT 500, Gauge pursues him, leaning out of the window, firing rounds that ricochet off the trunk and bumper.
    Passing the occasional cop, Remington signals and yells for help, but no one responds.
    Sitting outside at a restaurant in Winter Park.
    Summer evening.
    Amtrak train clacking down the line.
    Waiting.
    Heather arrives, having walked down from her gallery. It’s a little after six. She has worked all day, but she looks morning-fresh, as if she just finished getting ready.
    Stylish.
    Sexy.
    Delicate.
    Work of art.
    —Did you see how many men turned to watch you walk in?
    She shakes her head, opens her menu.
    —Seriously?
    —What?
    —I’m asking you a serious question.
    —I didn’t notice.
    —None of them?
    —I don’t know. Maybe a few.
    —But in general.
    —In general, what? Can I tell if a guy is checking me out?
    —Do you notice how many guys take notice of you? The sheer volume. Are you aware of the effect you have on men?
    —No more than most women.
    —Most women. Are you kidding?
    —Guys check out girls. Girls check out guys. Guys are more obvious about it.
    —You know one of the things I like most about you? One of the things I like most about you is that you’re far more beautiful than you realize.
    —Is that a compliment?
    —It is. You’re not insecure. You’re … you’re so cool being you, it’s just not something you think about. You—your beauty, your appeal, your attraction—are not an issue.
    —Those are all just physical, surface things.
    —It applies to the other things, too—your mind, talent, ability, competence—but we were talking about your seductiveness.
    —We?
    —I
was talking about your seductiveness.
    —Guys checking me out because I fix up for work doesn’t make me seductive.
    —You know one of the things I like best about you? One of the things I like best about you is you don’t realize how seductive you are.
    —You’re going to leave me, aren’t you? she says.
    —No.
    —Be honest.
    —Eventually. Not tonight. Not for a while, but eventually, inevitably, yes.
    —Why?
    —I’m not sure.
    —We should drive up this weekend and see your folks. You need to go hunting with your dad.
    —I do?
    —Yes. And I love spending time with your mom. Making love.
    —Be quiet.
    —What?
    —Hold it down. I don’t want them to hear us.
    In Remington’s childhood room, his parents just down the hall.
    Clothes on the floor.
    K-Y on the night stand.
    Missionary.
    Her favorite.
    Loving.
    Definitely not fucking.
    Sweet.
    Intimate.
    Tender.
    —How many times you had sex in here? she asks.
    —Thousands.
    —With a partner?
    —Not many.
    Suddenly, they are in his parents’ bed.
    Fearful his folks will come home early, Remington thrusts like a jackhammer.
    Heather becomes Lana, his high school girlfriend.
    —Is this okay? he asks.
    She nods, blinks back tears.
    —We can wait.
    —No, I want to.
    —You sure?
    —I’m just scared your parents will come home.
    —You won’t get pregnant.
    —I won’t?
    —I’m 98 percent positive.
    She laughs.
    They kiss.
    She’s gone.
    Remington’s back in the woods of his family’s property—not with his dad, but this time with his mother. He’s an adult. She’s healthy. They both have cameras.
    —Visualize your photograph, she says. Imagine it. Compose it in your mind before you ever bring out your camera. To be an artist, you have to think like an artist. See yourself as a painter looking at a blank canvas. You determine what goes on it. Once you know what the picture you want to take looks like, use time, light, and composition to achieve it.
    He tries to do what she says.
    —Take time to explore. Get to know the area before you try to sum it up in a single photograph. If your picture is to capture and convey a sense of place, you have to know that place intimately.
    —Yes, ma’am.
    —This is so nice.
    —It is. How?
    —How what?
    —You’re not sick.
    —I’m eternal.
    —You are?