I am taking the photo now, and you keep moving and talking.

I forget now what you were saying; I remember your face moving and thinking at that moment that it was so like you. So like you to move against the grain. It was four seconds, I counted under my breath and my lips moved. I counted out the minutes in the developer and in the fix. There are other images of I made of you. I like that one best, you say, meaning the one where you are looking back at me through a mirror. In that photograph, your back is in sharp focus and the texture of the knit you are wearing contrasts against the mirror and blank white wall you are facing. It is strange that the reflection of your face is blurred and even though I have managed to catch you, stilled, for several moments you still move against fixidty.