The Negative

The Negative

That February weekend when you drove 90 miles to see me,
we crossed the city looking for a photobooth.
I wanted to see what we looked like on paper,
if we looked in love like everyone said.

We found a booth at K-mart
and squeezed into a space meant for two children.
You sat on the ripped black swivel stool
and said it poked you.

The maroon curtain, cheap worn-down velvet, smelled of dust.
I nearly fell off your lap and out the other side,
and our laughter buzzed. I surrendered
four quarters.

I ignored the camera and looked at you,
avoiding fake smiles and predetermined poses,
and the bright flash burst without warning.
One. Two. Three. Four.

Four unplanned pictures on a thin black and white strip.
The middle frames buried beneath a wide bleached splotch,
blurring out our happiness drawn in dimpled, open mouth laughter
and closed eyes.

The last frame looked like a glossy page from a fashion magazine,
advertising designer perfume.
Looking at each other, we closed the distance between our faces,
and smiled.

Now, I keep us pressed between the pages of our yearbook,
because when I see the flawed photos,
I wonder what would have happened
had the two developed properly.