The eyes looking over your shoulder are brown, amber almost. They seem out of place surrounded by the crazy mess of blue-black hair and the blanket. They should be grey or green. They are wide, not surprised, just large, giving an air of innocence. The fold at the top of the picture cuts across the nose. That makes it seem broken, larger than it was. The lips are rosy and have that pouty look that Nastassia Kinsky has made an art. They don’t go with the eyes, but neither do they fit the hair.

 

The oddest thing about the picture was the grey sweatshirt.

 

It was mine.

 

So was the blanket. And the camera I took the photo with.

 

The shirt was mine, but I never knew the person in it, never held her.  Now, without that photograph, I never will.