Death Bliss
She notes the distance between the table and the shelving, the width of the aisle, the fact that I remain standing by the doorframe and have not moved to follow her in.
"You may photograph what you choose," I say.
She sets her bag on the table. The canvas is faded blue, the straps worn pale at the shoulders, and she handles it with the care of someone who has owned few things and kept them long. From it she removes a notebook, a pen, and a small camera. The camera is a cheap plastic thing, the kind you buy at an airport electronics shop because you forgot to pack a better one. She places each item on the table in a precise row: notebook left, camera center, pen right. Then she looks at me.