It was my idea.

The photo booth was my idea.

I thought it would be fun.

Now there’s this narrow strip of four photos, the only real physical evidence that we ever existed as…

As we.

Photo 1: The mugshot

Photo 2: The snarling beasts

Photo 3: The clowns

Photo 4: The real evidence

Photo 4 made me blush with shame. The way you were looking at me I knew we were done. It was me looking down. It was you looking at me with that what the fuck am I doing here face. I knew we were done. Even when I was so happy you invited me to go there with you, I knew when I saw Photo 4. It was the bigger truth.

I used the strip of photos as a bookmark in a book of poetry. I left it buried in the book when I finished and put the book on the shelf, knowing without thinking that I won’t pick up the book again until I do a housecleaning. Then it will go with other books and dormant mementos to the donation bin.

Where maybe someone will come upon the photos, and maybe make up their own corresponding story. Or not. Maybe they’ll just pull out the little, narrow strip of black and white photos and without thinking, destroy the evidence.

Because that’s what we do. We make up stories that work for a while and then we make another and another and another.

Blah.

Hello Saturday.