Her memories are like photographs: faded, torn, and flat. They are scattered like dry leaves in autumn, laying in piles on the table, stuffed in books on the shelf.

She fears forgetting, and so she archives her memories in 4×6 inch prints. She doesn’t really remember, because she’s never really been there. She lives her life through the viewfinder, trying to snap the perfect picture so that she will remember things she’s never really seen.

Today she is in Paris. She looks up, camera ready, to snap the perfect postcard photo of the Eiffel Tower. With a whir and a click, her film shuffles itself back into the safety of the plastic container. Her camera beeps its announcement that it is out of film. She has none left with her. She needs to take a second, the flash ruined the first.

Hands shaking, she snaps on the lens protector. Now her only memory of Paris will be ruined by a bad flash. She looks around, hoping to see a drugstore where she can buy more.

She doesn’t see a drugstore. Instead, she sees him.