Chapter Text
According to ‘The Times’ there are 2,373 squirrels in Central Park, New York City. You know because you were there. You helped count them. You and about 320 other citizens signed up to solve a zoological mystery.
Over a course of two weeks in November last year, you volunteered to estimate the number of squirrels in the park.
You remember it very fondly, as if it was yesterday. For each of your four shifts, you were assigned an area to walk about for 20 minutes. For every squirrel you’ve seen you had to mark its exact position on a detailed map.
You also had to track a series of traits: what colour had its coat? Did it have any highlights on it? The problem is, squirrels move quickly, so it can be hard to judge what colour they are.
If they happened to make any squirrel-sounds you had to add that to your notes as well, distinguishing between moans, kuks and quaas.
Citizens science projects are far from perfect but the organization that started this project, used a formula from a 1959 squirrel study to come up with a final count. You even looked it up in the library later.
The reason why you are so fascinated by squirrels is simple: it was the very first animal you took a photograph of using professional equipment. Back in Bly, the day you got your acceptance letter from ‘Royal College of Art’, you spent the entire afternoon in your garden trying to take a picture of an Eastern Grey squirrel that happened to live by the giant willow tree.
Just right about when the sun started to set, daring to change the lightning, the atmosphere, all of it, you did it. The perfect shot. In the end, however, you developed the one photo you made mere seconds before, the one that turned out blurry because your hands were shaking from the effort of holding a camera in the same position for hours.
You framed it shortly after, putting it on the shelf in your bedroom next the first book on photography you ever purchased. Since that very day, the photograph served as both your lucky charm and a reminder: you can always do better.
Sometimes you get nostalgic, just thinking about squirrels since they hold such a deep meaning for you: it’s where your life begins. Good thing is that in Central Park they are literally everywhere if you just know where to look. Some days, spending the afternoon in the park is all it takes to get back on track and to remember to be the best version of yourself.
Also, you do not need more than your Nikon D5, a bottle of water and a good chunk of determination and you can do anything you set your mind to. You tell yourself you won’t go home until you’re satisfied with the result.
And that’s where you are now: trying to capture a dark-coated squirrel next acorn tree that you’ve been watching through your lens for over an hour. You had put down a walnut on the grass a few metres away from you, hoping a squirrel would be brave enough to come get it.
Squirrels in Central Park or also those in St. James Park in London, they’re so used to humans being in their space constantly, that they are practically hand tame. You could even pet them if you’re lucky enough.
It took some time but eventually one came your way - slowly, tentatively and ready to back off when needed – and took the nut. It didn’t run off with it either, in fact it’s seconds away from cracking it and you can’t believe this is happening. If that wasn’t enough, it also looks your way now with its pitch-black eyes, its small paws gripping the nut and you think, this is it.
Just when you’re about to press the shutter button on your camera, your phone starts to ring in the back pocket of your jeans and you snap back to reality. You wince just the tiniest bit but that’s enough and the squirrel’s gone. And the moment too, just like that.
You reluctantly answer the phone, asking yourself who on earth could possibly want something from you now and you almost want to greet the person on the other line with a thanks a lot for ruining my day.
But it’s Owen and even if you tried you could never be mad at him. Although, you must say, his timing is absolute shite.
*
‘Jamie, love, I got news’, he says and he sounds so excited, almost like a child on Christmas morning. It would be adorable if you wouldn’t be slightly annoyed by his intrusion.
You turn onto your back then, twirling a leaf between your fingers, while Owen babbles non-stop on the other end of the receiver. For a moment you wonder if that is a new record of the most words spoken in a minute.
Your brain, however, manages to filter out the most important stuff, which is:
The in-house-photographer from the magazine Owen works for got fired, meaning they are currently looking for a new one to take their spot.
What does that have to do with me, Owen?’, you ask, genuinely confused. ‘Well, I think you should apply for that position’, he said next, enumerating all the reasons why you absolutely should consider it.
When he finally pauses to take a second to breathe, you say, ‘Did you hit your head and forgot what kind of photographer I am, you muppet?’
But he just laughs and you can’t believe you have to spell it out for him. ‘Animals’, you say, shaking your head in disbelief. ‘I photograph animals, Owen, not… people.’
It’s been ages ago since the last time you took a picture of another human being, professionally that is, with proper gear and all that.
Besides, wild-life-photography is something completely different.
Animals, they do what they want to do, really. You can’t tell them to look your way, do something cute or stand where the light is better.
You have to be there when it happens, when they decide to do something worth taking a photograph of. You have to wait and you have to be patient. It takes a very long time to get a good wild-life shot, even longer to make great ones.
However, it’s never wasted time either. The longer you spend watching them, the better you get to know them. You learn to anticipate what they might do in a certain situation or a particular time of the day.
Getting the perfect shot makes all the waiting worthwhile.
You have no interest in photographing anything beyond that, and thus working at a women’s magazine wouldn’t make any sense at all. It would be something like trying to photograph a female cheetah with her cubs in the swamps of the amazon rainforest.
(For the record: they live and hunt in open grasslands and bushy areas in parts of Africa and the Middle East.)
The problem with all of this is that Owen has some solid arguments, knowing exactly how to support them. Being a writer definitely has its perks, that’s for sure.
And you shouldn’t be beginning to entertain his idea, but you do. Even though comparing the two niches is like saying Michelangelo’s ‘David’ and Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ are similar, just because they’re both art.
You don’t really know what convinced you in the end.
Maybe it was him paying you a compliment, that made you blush, ‘Whatever you photograph is bloody brilliant.’
Could well be, that it was also the way he said, ‘Everyone needs a challenge every once in a while.’
But in hindsight, though, it surely was you need the money bit, that made you do it. It doesn’t hurt to try, right?
Anyway, you decide to keep your expectations relatively low so you wouldn’t be disappointed afterwards if it shouldn’t work out. Besides, you don’t really believe they’d take you of all people:
One, this is New York City and not Bly. ‘Scarlet Magazine’ is a women’s magazine bound to become the best in the state and it’s not some insignificant paper back in your hometown, that has at the very most one hundred weekly readers.
Two, you are a wildlife-photographer, who, to be fair, is going through a rough patch at the moment – your pieces aren’t selling too well and never for the price you deem appropriate, bearing in mind how much work, love and patience you pour into them – and you are more than just a bit out of practice.
And three, the very last time you photographed professional models was in your college days. And that’s how long ago? Five years? Perhaps six. But not more than seven. You did do some street photography in India and Thailand a few summers ago, but it’s hardly anything like partaking in fashion-photoshoot or anything of that sort.
Despite our better judgement you throw together a folder with your pieces of the last years, including your favourites. You can’t resist to put in some wild-life-shots, just so they see how versatile you are. You give it to Owen later that day so he can take it with him tomorrow.
You can’t even begin to imagine the amount of applications the editorial office of the magazine is going to be flooded with the next couple of days, meaning that yours is only one of many, many others.
So, all things considered, the chances that they hire you, or at least invite you to a job-interview are very slim if not … non-existent. Yes, also if Owen puts in a good word for you like he promised.
*
A few days later you sit in your favourite underground bar, waiting for Owen to show up. You have some big news and you decided against a text or a call, because you need to see his face when you tell him.
He’s running late, which usually is very unlike him, but it has occurred more and more the worse the state of his mother has gotten. By the time he gets there you’re already on your second drink of the evening.
When the barista asks what they can get him, he orders a goddamn Piñacolada. You laugh a little when it arrives, ‘Owen, I know you are an ally and I love you for that, but this here’, you point to the drink in his hand, ‘is a gay drink’.
He shrugs, unimpressed, ‘Look, I am at a gay bar with you. So I think people here automatically assume that I fancy dudes with or without that drink.’
‘Fair point’, you say with a chuckle, taking a long drink from your own glass.
‘So why did you want to get a drink on a weekday? You never do that, unless there’s something to celebrate… Or you’re heartbroken. What is it?’, he asks, raising his eyebrows.
You chuckle and you are bubbling with excitement, ‘Take a guess.’
You see the exact moment it hits him: His eyes grow big, his jaw falls open in shock and then he says, unable to keep the incredulity from his tone, ‘Noooo, Jamie, really? Are you’re trying to tell me that you – ‘
You nod, hiding your proud grin behind your glass. His face lights up then, a huge smile spreading from one ear to the other. ‘Wow, that’s huge’, he says and shoves you playfully, making the drink in your hand spill over the rim of the glass. You laugh a little, delighted that he’s so happy for you. ‘You need to me everything, champ!’
And you do, you tell him all of it: About the call you got this morning, while you were on your run through the park. How you almost didn’t hear what they said because you only heard your heart thudding in your ear.
By the time they said you made it onto the short-list, you had to ask them to repeat what they said, because you couldn’t believe what they said.
But no, they really invited you to a job interview at Scarlet.
It’s safe to say Owen goes absolute bonkers after that, ‘Dude, that’s impressive! Do you have any idea how many people applied for that job?’
You shake your head loosely. ‘Well, if Henry’s word is to be trusted, then...’, he lowers his voice as if it was some sort of secret, but it might just be the alcohol buzzing in his veins that makes him act like a total dork. ‘…you have outdone fifty-three other photographers.’
You narrow his eyes at him, because it wouldn’t be the first time he’d say non-sense while inebriated, ‘You’re kidding right?’
‘No, I’m deadly serious’, he tells you and you can see it in his eyes that it’s the truth. ‘Cheers to you, Jamie.’ Owen raises his glass and you click them together messily.
You cannot for the life of yours believe your own luck.
However, Owen is convinced that luck has barely anything to do with it. Maybe partially, yes, but the thing that got you this far, according to him, is not that. ‘It’s your talent’, he explains, ‘they have seen it in the way you capture beauty in a moment in time.’ You swatted the menu at him when he said that ‘God, stop it.’
A scotch and a glass of wine later Owen is pretty drunk, ‘And that kids, is why I shouldn’t drink on weekdays. Booze hits stronger when it knows you have to work the day after’, he slurs. You laugh, ruffling his hair, ‘Of course if that makes you feel better. It’s definitely not the fact that you didn’t stick to one type of alcohol.’
You call your friend an uber soon after that because well, he’s absolutely wasted. ‘Sure you don’t want to c-come with?’, he asks, tongue sitting heavy in his mouth, when you fasten his seatbelt. You shake your head, smiling, ‘No, I think I’ll stay a little longer.’
He wriggles his eyebrows at you and you roll your eyes back in your head so much it almost hurts. Yes, you were wondering if you could get even luckier tonight, but the way he tugs you close and mutters, ‘Go get ‘em, tiger’, makes you regret letting him have that last drink.
*
It’s not long before your evening takes an exciting turn. You’re at the bar casually flirting with Theo, the barista while nursing your drink, when she shows up. The very moment she barges through the door of the bar, you know you’re a goner.
Blonde hair, that could appear golden in the light of day. Skin like milk and honey. Eyes a shade of blue deeper the deepest depths of the sea.
A sundress. Denim jacket. White sneakers.
You let your eyes rake over her figure, taking in how the dress hugs her in all the right places, how the jacket gives the outfit a laid-back touch, how the shoes look better with the dress than heels ever could.
You tell yourself not to stare, but you feel so drawn to her. You force yourself to look away, but it’s only working for a couple of seconds. Your eyes find her again.
You know you shouldn’t look at her like that, but holy hell, she’s hot.
And really, you wouldn’t mind spending the night with her.
When Theo sees the look on your face, sees who you’re looking at, she lets out a low whistle, muttering, ‘Damn, looks like I don’t stand a chance.’
She grins then, obviously amused by you being completely flustered and not upset at all that she can’t hold your attention any longer, when the woman sits down on the bar stool next to you.
From that moment on it’s only you and her.
Even though it’s a Tuesday night, there are quite some people in the bar, drinking, dancing, bantering. The spot next to yours is pretty much the only one left. Now that’s convenient, isn’t it?
You can’t ignore that up close she looks even prettier. Maybe a bit too pretty.
Definitely too pretty.
You shake your head, taking a long drink from your glass, yep, she’s so outta my league.
Theo asks the woman what she can do her for and she looks at you then, winks and says, her eyes never leaving you, ‘I’ll take what she’s having’.
You blink one, two, three times, and your brain takes a moment too long to catch up. But when it finally clicks, it screams at you at full volume, she’s flirting with you, idiot. Fuckin’ say something!’
And before you can stop yourself, the words spill out of your mouth, ‘Haven’t seen you around here before.’
You want to kick yourself for using the most worn out pick up line in existence. Well, maybe it is not as bad as you come here often? That would’ve been worse.
But she just laughs and you think that she has no right to be this gorgeous, ‘Maybe that’s because I am not from around here’, she comments, vaguely gesturing with her hands.
It’s not long before Theo places the woman’s drink in front of her, giving you a look knowing look, before she draws a beer for another guest. You watch the woman intently as she takes the first sip of her drink – apricot mojito, your favourite – and she hums in contentment.
‘So you’re cute and have a good taste… Tell me, why didn’t I come here before?’
You choke a little on your drink, heat rising in your cheeks. It would be the end of you, if she came here regularly, flirting with you like that.
Instead you say, ‘Well, I could ask you the same.’ Your brain, that is usually unable to function around beautiful women seems to cut you some slack and you’d say you almost sound suave, ‘No seriously, what brings you to this bar of all places. If you don’t mind me asking?’
She tilts her head back then, running her fingers through her blonde hair and god, the way she does it makes you want to pull on it. Then, for a fleeting second the motion exposes the pale skin of her neck and you ask yourself what she might taste like right there.
You avert your eyes then, shifting your glance around the room, feeling ashamed for having inappropriate thoughts about someone you literally just met. ‘Want a typical answer or do you want to hear the truth?’, she asks with a chuckle.
You dare to look at her again, because you can’t not do it, and she seems to become more stunning with every time you do. Jesus. You swallow, ‘Whatever you feel most comfortable with, love.’
She gives you a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes and you wonder why that is, ‘Well, I’d like not to be me for little while… I want to leave all my life, my responsibilities and other people’s expectations behind. Even if it’s just for a night.’
You simply nod because there were times in your life where you felt the same. ‘So I thought a small gay bar at the other end of the city would be perfectly splendid for that.’
You think about her words for a moment as you move a finger along the rim of the glass, ‘I reckon your plan has a flaw.’
‘Is that so?’, she says in a way she shouldn’t, because damn, you almost forget what you want to say. You bring your glass to your lips again to buy yourself some time.
‘I mean, how should anyone know you’re not you, when there’s no one to share it with?’, you ask her as your gaze trails the outlines of her beautiful face.
She sighs softly, ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right.’
You clear your throat, telling yourself to be brazen because this might me the only chance you have with a woman like her, ‘I could be anyone you want’, you say tentatively and her head tilts sideways just a little, eyeing you curiously and it’s enough to keep you talking.
‘We could be strangers in the night, who don’t know anything about the other. No where do you come from, no what do you do, hell, not even what’s your name. At when we part ways in the end … you go back to your life and I’ll go back to mine. And we’ll most likely never see each other again.’
You swallow down your but I really hope we do as you finish your mojito.
Your tongue darts out to swipe over your lip to lick away the last bit of your drink. Her gaze drops to your, lingers there for a moment, long enough for you to notice, before your eyes meet again.
She points at your empty glass and a smirk appears on her face, which you definitely read too much into. ‘Can I buy you another?’
*
When she asks you if you play pool and if you’d fancy a game, you didn’t know you’d let yourself in on. Even though you beat your friends at it every single time, next to her you look like a fucking amateur.
Rather than making you lose, she insists on showing you a thing or two so you can improve your shots. ‘So you can keep up with me’, she says as she makes her way to you to the other side of the table. The teasing quality in her tone isn’t entirely new, but now there is something else to it you can’t bring yourself to even consider.
She stands beside you now and if the proximity of your bodies makes it damn hard to concentrate. ‘This one is called the closed bridge technique’, she explains as she shows you how to do it. ‘Makes you look like professional player if done right. Also, your shots will be more accurate.’
You try to imitate her, but it doesn’t look the same as when she does it. She giggles softly, ‘No, look, like this.’
Normally you wouldn’t say demonstrating how to hold the cue stick in a certain manner is a hands-on activity – yes, even if the other person can’t get the hang of it at all – but you don’t mind when she does it.
However, now you got another problem: The moment you feel her close as she stands behind you, your brain short-circuits and your nerves kick into overdrive.
You can’t focus on any of the words that come from her, hear them only distantly when she says:
‘Put your left hand on the surface of the table, like that.’
‘Now put your cue inside the circle you made with your index finger and thumb.’
‘Motion your cue forward and backward to loosen the circle enough to make it seem comfortable.’
When she moves even closer, because you don’t do it right – of course, you didn’t listen. You were too busy taking in her scent, the sound of her voice – her hand finds yours, adjusting the position of your cue stick and,
You feel her now.
Before you even realize you melt into the touch, your eyes slipping closed at the sensation, and god help you, you even push your body into hers without thinking, biting down on your bottom lip, as you try to hold back whatever that might leave you if you don’t.
And then you hear it,
A soft oh, followed by an honest-to-God mhm.
The room suddenly tilts sideways, making your head spin, spin, spin.
Within an instant your veins are filled with pure pleasure, pumping desire throughout your body, kicking all the air from your lungs.
You desperately want to say her name, want her to say yours too, over and over again.
‘Fuck.’
As you swear under your breath, you feel grip on your waist tightening, hear her ragged breath in your ear, smell her scent even more now, and well,
Now you don’t want to play anymore.
Besides, you get the idea that she, too, would rather do something else instead.
You, maybe.
*
When you say goodbye later that night it’s almost dawn. The city slowly comes alive again and with it the journey of yours comes to an end.
The exhaustion settles deep in your bones and you feel the soreness of the muscles in your body with each step you take.
As you the walk beside each other along the East River, savouring the last few minutes before you’re both going back to your lives, you say, ‘I think that’s where we part ways.’
She smiles sadly, ‘I think so too, yeah.’
You return the smile, not ready to let go of your hand just yet, when she brushes a curl out of your hair, ‘I know I said I didn’t want to be me for a while and I meant that, but you should know it’s the most I felt like me in a very long time. Thank you for that.’
You kiss her one last time, tasting yourself on her lips, on her tongue and you feel her fingers that moved inside you so perfectly, curling in your hair now as she urges you closer. Your hands find her hips, that jerked into your palm in a messy rhythm when you fucked her into the wall of the bathroom stall. You can’t believe the mouth that kisses you right now, soft and tender, is the same that said gonna come for me?, making your knees buckle just right after you did.
You rest your foreheads together and you let out a shaky exhale. ‘Don’t look back’, she says softly before she lets go of you entirely. She looks at you and her eyes say promise me you won’t. You simply nod.
She turns around then, leaves, and you do too. Even if you want to so badly, you don’t watch her go because you promised.
Strangers, you remind yourself as you both walk into different directions and into the dark. You’re strangers that had some fun together, that’s all. It was nothing more than that.
Right?
But fuck, all those lonely nights that are yet to come, in which you know you’ll be thinking of her, your time together, the two of you together, her name would keep the memory of her alive, colourful.
And just like that,
she already starts to fade away.