The End

“C’mon! It’ll only take a second,” she said. “Besides, we’ve been meaning to have our picture made together.”

“Taken,” I corrected.

“I’m sorry?”

“Taken,” I repeated. “Have our picture taken.”

She smiled demurely, looked over her glasses and slowly shook her head. “I thought you meant you were taken.” Crinkling her nose and chuckling she continued, “and that just wouldn’t do, since we’re about to have our picture made together.”

She winked. I winced.

“I realize I’m taking your bait here.”


“And I think you’re wrong. Pictures are taken, not made.”

She tapped her foot, head cocked just so, arms folded. “I’m listening.”

“Well,” I said, “a painting is made since the utensils used create something from nothing. There’s a genesis that’s missing in a photo.”

She let me continue.

“Snapshots are just rendered or captured. Where’s the epiphany or the artistry?”

“But, in the end, the picture you take is equal to the picture you make,” was her retort.

We were both smiling when we had our picture made.

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