On Sunday morning, still in bed, I opened a folder of photographs on my phone.
I found the one I wanted straight away: me in a white shirt and jeans, barefoot outside a bar.
I'd looked at it the night before. On Friday, I'd opened the folder just to look at it and been interrupted by the delivery buzzer.
Now nobody was due at the door.
I zoomed in on my mouth, then my eyes, then went back to the whole photograph.
The woman who'd taken it preferred a different one.
The folder
I keep photographs to masturbate to. Some are of me. A few are so familiar that I know which part I'll zoom in on before I open them. With videos, I know which part I want to watch again.
Some photographs I don't look at again for months. Others I open almost every day for a while. I open the folder to see what I feel like and end up choosing the same one. I look at a couple more, just to pretend I'm still deciding.
I'd been coming back to this one for days.
I liked the expression on my face. I was smiling at her, just above the phone. I remembered wanting her to put it down and come over to kiss me. She'd still been concentrating on taking a good photograph.
That still amused me.
Take a few for me
She'd taken it a few nights earlier, in Madrid. We'd had dinner at a bar and lingered on the terrace. I'd taken my shoes off under the table. Before putting them back on, I wanted a few photographs outside.
I was wearing a white shirt tucked into my jeans. I left my shoes under our table and walked a few steps into the quiet street. The lights from the terrace were behind me.
I handed her my phone.
“Take a few for me.”
I stood up straight, put my hands in my pockets and gave her the smile I use when I want someone to keep looking. She took the photograph. I liked how I looked in it.
“That one's for you,” I said.
“Weren't they supposed to be for you?”
“I want some for me, too.”
She looked at me over the phone.
“What's the difference?”
“I want one to masturbate to. Make it a good one.”
She laughed and stepped back a little to get me in from head to toe.
Keep taking them
“Same place?” she asked.
“Yes. Stop telling me when you're going to take one.”
She took several while we talked. Every click made me want to see how I'd come out. It was hard to keep talking without adjusting my pose.
“Do you have more like these?”
“A whole folder.”
“Can I see?”
“Finish these first.”
I liked giving her instructions and having her follow them. Now that she knew what I wanted the photographs for, she was making more of an effort.
“Look at me,” I said.
“I am.”
“You keep looking at the screen.”
She lowered it a little. I could see her whole face. I was about to ask her to put the phone down when I heard another click.
“That one. Let me see.”
She handed me the phone and we looked through the pictures together.
I stopped at the last of the six new photographs and zoomed in. My hands were still in my pockets. I'd tilted my head slightly and put my weight on one leg. I was smiling at her rather than the camera.
“The first one's better,” she said.
“For you.”
I marked the last one as a favourite and put the phone in my pocket.
“Come here.”
I caught her by the lapel and kissed her. Then we went back to the table for my shoes.
Sunday morning
On Sunday, in bed, I remembered her asking to see the folder.
I could have sent her the photograph I was looking at. I liked imagining where she'd be when she opened it and what she'd think of me. Sometimes I sent one just to interrupt somebody's day.
That morning, I wanted to look at it myself.
I zoomed in on my mouth again. I'd been holding back a smile. I remembered being about to ask her to put the phone down. I liked seeing how much I wanted her.
I tried a closer crop: face and shoulders. Looked at that version, then undid it. I wanted the white shirt, the jeans, my bare feet and the lights from the terrace.
I liked seeing myself barefoot in the street. I remembered the cool pavement and wanting her to come closer. I'd spent part of dinner wondering whether she'd come home with me. In that photograph, I was fairly sure of the answer.
I looked at the first photograph again to compare them. I looked good: back straight, smiling at the lens as if I already knew what she'd say when she received it.
I went back to the one I'd marked as a favourite.
By then I knew which part I wanted to zoom in on. I could look through every other photograph and still end up back at that one.
I masturbated to that photograph. Afterward, I stayed in bed with the folder open.
After a while, I realised I'd spent more time looking at myself than thinking about her. That made me laugh. I zoomed in again.
When the low-battery warning appeared, I got up for the charger and came back to bed.
I wanted a little longer in bed.
The one I sent
Her message arrived while I was looking through the pictures again.
“Am I ever going to see my work?”
I sent her the first photograph. White shirt, jeans, my best angle.
She answered quickly.
“Told you that was the one.”
I looked at the message, then at the photograph I'd chosen to keep for myself.
I could have told her what I'd been doing with the other one. I decided to save that for dinner. I wanted to see her face when I told her.
“You can take more,” I wrote.
“When?”
I checked the calendar and suggested Thursday for dinner. While I waited for her answer, I went back to my favourite photograph.