I found a disposable camera among the precariously stacked mountain of things on Nick's desk. Since he's not much of the picture-taking type, and I'm very much of the picture-taking type, I was sure it was mine. I carried it carefully in my purse for a few days, so that the next time I passed by the camera store I could get it processed. It seemed so delicate, some lost weekend wedged between 2006 and 2007, a forgotten party spent laying across a couch in a pile of people, some throwaway shots of my dog before she died in June. These quick moments had long passed, and now were just light on gelatin. They hardly existed at all.
Unfortunately, the camera that very well could have been mine belonged to Nick's ex-girlfriend. I flipped through the photos of beach vacations, uninspiring costume parties, smiling strangers; these memories were not mine. Feelings of foolishness, disappointment, and jealousy settled in my gut as nausea. But the last picture on the roll was vintage Nick, smiling with his whole face, and that made it worth paying for someone else's film.
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