cynosure

It was one of my last days in Paris and one of the few afternoons when you could pretend it was warm enough to sit outside. Facing the indoor part of the café, I noticed the white of her shirt, the slicing motions of her hands. I focused my camera on the ice in my glass, dimming her to a background blur, then reversed the perspective, putting her at the picture's center. A few minutes later, she walked out of the café alone, hesitated, then crossed the side street. It was only then that I realized that she was probably eight months pregnant.

I'm floored and touched by all of your comments. And I want you to know that I'm thinking of you too -- especially those of you still waiting and hoping or those who feel left behind or those who've moved on to other places. I know that, for me, there have been times that, for some reason or for no reason at all, someone else's good news has tasted bitter, has burnt acrid in my lungs. And now, staring at the lucky card in my hand, I hate that somewhere, fortune, blind and wild, is breaking others on her monstrous spinning wheel.