He is looking at the camera with a smug grin; he has captured the Mona Lise smile and then let it slide with an inch of pride. Tip of nose and cheek wear light. Shirt-collar and cuffs white and gleaming under untight thin navy sweater. Shoulders slouched but not slumped. Arm crossed comfortably into the crook of the right elbow, the drink-bearing arm (coke, maybe rum). Fingers crooked around the glass, the index much closer to the rim than the others; glass raised, mid-action? But a full focus on the phone's camera. This is how she recognisea him; not shy but conscious; not vain but self-conscious; not self-conscious, no - hesitant.
She is paused for hours over the delete button. A stolen photo and a boy who knows she cares, she hopes, but a boy unknown. Can she read him? Can she even recognise him? The photo is a reminder for the long periods when he drops the odd line, missing her. Poor blonde, now she cannot sleep for staring. This is a polaroid of her. She is shy, conscious, vain, self-conscious. She is not made of his stuff and does not really know him. She gives him the same name the others use for theirs. He, who is not there. He, who she hardly knows, who never turns up in her dreams, at her door, never calls yet cares. The name she gives him is not enough to mean lover, darling, sweetness, angelface, babyhair, Valentine. But he won't give it back.