[Photograph]

Her teeth ached, but she continued to chew on a piece of gum with the flavor long gone. According to the clock on her desk, night was already half over. She shifted in her seat, moved her head so the heel of her hand dug under her cheekbone, and yawned. Her chewing slowed as she slid a photograph to the end of the desk with the lightest touch of her fingertips on its edge.
Some ad exec with connections hired a professional a few weeks ago. Up until then, she’d been the one with the camera in her hand, telling Chris to stop making faces, Roger to get at least some of his hair out of his face, and him to stop hiding in the depth of field. She’d have to urge him forward, using every bit of patience she had in her, and get him to where he belonged. She’d tell him that he had to get used to it, c’mon, he’s the singer. Then he’d touch her elbow, or her shoulder, or wherever, and whisper to her that he didn’t want to be up front. He didn’t want his picture taken at all.
She sighed.
Under the dull smudged ridges of a fingerprint, he stared at her. A fine layer of stubble had cropped up over his chin and jaw. And he’d crammed a knit cap on over his bare scalp. It came down low enough to perk his ears, and cover the peaks of the crinkles his eyebrows drew over his forehead. His heart-shaped mouth settled into a dull line. And his eyes, the frostiest blue, reflected a tiny silhouette of a stranger.
She ran her tongue over her lips and pressed them together. Her thumb traced over his left eyebrow, as if she could smooth it for him, the way he did for her. She closed her eyes, let her hand take the full weight of her head, and breathed deep. In the deepest concentration, she could smell him–that mix of marinara sauce and cheese and beer that no amount of scrubbing could cure him of. She could feel his smooth cheek above the line of his facial scruff. Could hook a gentle fingertip through the gauged hole in his lobe, and peer into the recesses of those eyes.
She opened her eyes and flipped the photograph over. He’d written the date on the back in his black-pen chicken scratch, and a quick comment–Hate this. Miss you.
She swallowed.
He’d written about last weekend in the letter he’d sent with this picture. He’d woken up on Sunday with his head pounding, his throat raw, and his left hand bruised and swollen two times the normal size. He wrote that he didn’t remember trashing the band’s hotel room, or how he even got back after the gig. But he knew he’d drank too much Jager, too much Guinness. He’d broken his hand on a giant gilded mirror that had hung over the sink in the bathroom. The damages had gotten the band thrown out.
And throughout, he repeated that he didn’t know why he’d done it. He just couldn’t remember a damned thing–except that he’d wanted to be home. He longed to rest his head in her lap and dream of songs he hadn’t written yet.
He told her he didn’t know what he was doing. And ended his letter with two shaky words: Love, Teddy.
Jake wanted to call him then. She knew he’d be awake, late as it was, but he’d written two weeks ago that he’d lost his phone in Albuquerque. Instead, she settled for the next address he’d given her, and got up from the creaking piano bench she used as a desk chair.
A small pile of treasures sat on the edge of the lowest shelf packed with well-read and loved-on novels. It included a magazine nearing its expiration date, a neat stack of burned CDs in slim neon-colored jewel cases, and a black spiral bound 100-page sketchbook. She brought them over using the magazine like a tray, and spread them out on the desk. Once his photograph had been moved to a safe place, held in the frame of her bulletin board, she settled down to work. Through the pages of the Rolling Stone, she found the quote she’d circled.
She flipped open the sketchbook, passing sketches of his favorite comic heroes in actions poses. Captain America. The Punisher. Iron Man. The Hulk. Wolverine. And stopped on the last page she’d worked on. In bold, black lines, she’d written out “BEAR METAL”, and drew a character with a heavy knit cap which shadowed his face down to the white slits of his eyes. He wore a growling grimace and held a razor-edged weapon in his hand, dubbed tentatively in the margins: F-U Sharp. Underneath the drawing, she copied the words down:
“If you’re at that place where you’re working hard, but don’t feel like you know what you’re doing anymore, then you’re on to something.”
And shut the book.
Tomorrow she’d send it to him.