200 shutter speed

self-portrait, Francis Bacon
My crisp sorrowful reflection is an expressionless oil still-life in winter's window shop. Sad not because the display jewelery will collect dust, but seeing the melancholy pale face of the shop girl with the duster. Our eyes meet briefly, those stark magpie slanting eyes cast downwards. She did not get a Christmas bonus. Her name-tag properly affixed reads 'Willow'. I tap my knuckles on the glass and she doesn't see me now.

The door mirror at home is too bulky to tote. The only way I'll prove to myself that I exist like an undiscovered eyeless glob at oceans bottom will be to carry a photo, producing it to strangers passing on the street corner. "Excuse me, sir, you see this"? I will say.

The film store is open, one solitary light is burning, the owner has his head resting on the glass case. Awake now, a blurry labeled whiskey bottle next, his eyelids fluttering at fast shutter speed. I purchase a roll with spare change, and he asks if I want it put in a brown paper bag. No, I reply, I'll hold it snug in my fist. It's a roll of the slowest speed to capture at f/1 my form in all its black and white glory. I will kiss shy Willow slowly as well very soon.