#57

another photo box. a bigger one this time. so many photographs to organize.

the sepia toned couple outside of the bistro. the man was dark-haired, arrogant and handsome, in a James Bond by Pierce Brosnan kind of way. he said something to her and looked to his menu and she looked at his downturned face, hurt and sadness creasing her laughlines in an irregular way.
a young girl in a pretty yellow dress, squatting on the dirty sidewalk to pet a stray cat. her mother never looked.
reading a well-worn letter, a camoflaged and clean cut army private sitting at the bus stop, no one taking note of him.

all these pictures, waiting for the box. he made his purchase and as he walked away, took another snapshot of the store clerk as she greeted the next customer.
this was his adrenaline rush, this was his defiance. no one noticed, no one knew, but he held these memories, made them his own in the dimming light of his room. he stole these memories, no one would know.
he stole these memories and now they were his.