Page 138 of The Grumpy Defenseman
Can I?
His gaze dropped to the camera, then came back to my face.
And he smiled.
Not the almost-smile. Not the one-corner movement I had been cataloging for weeks.
A real one.
Full. Unhidden. Given.
“Yes,” he said.
I took the picture.
The shutter clicked once.
Only once.
He lowered the mug. “You’re shooting me.”
“You gave permission.”
“I did.”
“You’re also in good light.”
“I’m in my kitchen.”
“Same thing.”
He shook his head, still smiling, and took a sip of coffee.
I lowered the camera and looked at the image on the screen.
Technically, it was imperfect.
The framing was a little off-center. The depth of field was shallower than I would usually choose. The highlights in the steam were close to blown.
It was still the best photograph I had ever taken because of what it held.
A man in his kitchen, holding coffee he had made badly but confidently. A man with his hair a mess, his walls down, and a smile he had chosen to give before I took anything from him.
Not a contract asset.
Not a campaign frame.
Not a private truth stolen by timing and want.
Just Evan.
Home.
I saved the image.
Then I set the camera on the counter and walked to him.
He put down the mug to make room for me.
