Anchoring

A continuation of “Positioning.”

I get off the plane after a 13-hour flight. I eat the dry chicken they plop onto my tray table with a strange sense of excitement. I don’t sleep a wink. I watch Stand By Me, Election, Fast Times at Richmond High, The Royal Tenenbaums, and American Beauty—513 minutes of movies. In the remaining time, I listen to the only song downloaded on my phone, “There’s No Reason To Cry” by Jode, staring out the window. I try to journal, but nothing seems to stick. Eventually, I start picking at my fingernail polish until it’s completely gone.

I get an Uber to the address he gave me. From the back seat, I watch bicycles fly past at a furious speed, close enough to feel reckless. I fidget with my jeans, picking at the seams, thinking about what he’ll be wearing. 

He’s standing outside the apartment—the one he sent me pictures of. He’s smoking a cigarette, his left hand tucked into the pocket of his ripped Carhartt pants. I can’t help myself. I lift my camera and take a picture.

He shakes his head. “You haven’t changed much since we met.” 

“You’ve only known me for a month,” I say, letting the camera fall gently against my chest. “And for three of those weeks I was back at school.”

“You’re right.” He drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his brown-and-yellow Sambas. “Follow me. I’ll give you a tour.”

The elevator is broken, so we climb five flights of stairs. He carries my suitcase the whole way, making it look easy on purpose. I notice the small betrayals—his arms shaking slightly, veins pressing through freckled skin. I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the instinct to document it.

The apartment is small, and I fall in love with it immediately. A bed in the corner. A couch. A coffee table stacked with art books. A narrow kitchen with an island that barely fits two people. He sets my suitcase by the bed. I drop my backpack onto a random chair near the door and take a picture of the room, just to remember how it looks right now.

“I got you a broodje gezond,” he says, nodding toward a small wrapped lump on the island. “I hope you like cheese.”

“What is a… broodje gezond?” I ask, mangling the words.

“Cheese sandwich.” He tosses it to me.

I unwrap it—cheese, lettuce, tomato. Simple. My stomach growls, catching me off guard. I take a bite. He watches me, and without meaning to, I count how many times I chew. Nine.

I swallow. “Yum. Simple but so good.” 

“I’ve eaten two already today,” he says. “You’ve gotta try a tosti. Same thing, just—hot. Like a panini.”

I nod, still chewing, suddenly aware of how long I’ve been awake, how much time I spent filling silence with movies and one downloaded song and the slow erasing of my fingernail polish. This feels different. Solid. 

“What’s the plan for today?” I ask him before taking another bite. 

“We can chill here and then go explore,” he says. “I know some fun places. Maybe hit a coffeeshop later and smoke. Then go out on the town. Bring your camera—you’ll want to document.”

The shower water is cold at first, then perfect. I wash my hair slowly, deliberately. Afterward, I stand naked in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. The red shower mat is fuzzy under my toes. I turn sideways, taking in my ribs, too sharp, my bony elbows. I poke at my breast and sigh. Then I dry my hair, watching steam blur the edges of my reflection.

Later, I take a picture of him eating a stroopwafel. He holds it out to me, and I lean in for a bite. The warm caramel floods my mouth, and my eyes widen without asking permission.

“My life has changed,” I tell him. 

“My exact thought the first time I had a fresh one,” he laughs. “We should get another—like a crazy one. Tons of toppings.”

“Totally,” I reply, brushing caramel from my thumb onto a napkin.

We end up walking without much direction, letting the streets decide for us. The city feels louder now—trams rattling past, bikes cutting close, conversations spilling out of open café doors. I keep my camera in my hand, not even lifting it every time, just feeling its weight, like proof that I’m here.

He stops every so often to point something out—a record store, a poster half-peeled from a wall, a canal he swears looks best at night. I nod, trying to store it all away, knowing I won’t remember everything. I take pictures anyway. His shoes by the curb. Him standing near a bike chained crookedly to a railing. Our reflections warped in a storefront window.

At one point, he reaches for my hand, casual, like he’s done it a hundred times before. I let him. My fingers are still a little sticky from sugar.

“Jet lag hit yet?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I say, even though I can feel it hovering, waiting. “I think I’m running on adrenaline.”

He smiles at that. “Good. Amsterdam’s better when you’re a little delirious.”

The streets fold into each other, canals flashing in and out of view, the day loosening as it goes. I take fewer pictures now. I let some things pass without framing them—his voice drifting ahead of me, the rhythm of our steps, the way the city keeps moving, whether I’m paying attention or not.

“Wanna get high?” he asks. 

We end up in a coffeeshop that feels a little too sketchy. We sit in a small booth, underground, like a basement, pretending not to be one. He orders a Cali joint—the most expensive thing on the menu. He lights it with a red lighter, brand new. He takes a long drag and blows a perfect O. Then he offers it to me.

“Do you know any tricks?” he inquires. 

“No,” I say. “I’m a loser.” I take a long hit, exhale slowly, and watch the smoke hang in the air before it disappears.

He shakes his head. “You’re not a loser.” 

“Compared to you, yeah.” I hand the joint back. “While you were traveling the world, I was busy making pottery. Pottery. How much lamer can you get?”

“Pottery’s cool,” he says. “Doing what you love is cool.”

I nod, not fully convinced. I lift my camera and take a picture of him as he inhales again, the smoke curling around his face, softening him just enough to feel unreal.

“Do you think you’ll ever become a photographer?” he questions. 

I shake my head. “It’s, uh, more of a hobby. And, besides, you’ve never even seen any of my photos.” 

He smiles, like he already knows the answer, and leans back against the booth. “Well, I’d like to see them someday.”

I tuck my camera onto my lap, fingers brushing the strap, and for a moment the hum of the coffeeshop fades. The smoke, the dim lights, the muffled chatter—it all blends into a quiet that makes me take a deep breath and muster the courage to show him. I reach into my purse and pull out the photos from the party where we met. I slide the stack across the table and take the joint from him.

I inhale deeply, staring off at a couple across the room to avoid seeing his reaction. I pretend like the joint is the most interesting thing in the world. I watch it burn, the pungent aroma filling my nose. My vision softens, blurring at the edges. I take another hit. “Love You Eternally" by Chris Rainbow starts playing on the speaker. I know this song. I smile, letting it settle over me.

He picks up the photos, flipping through them slowly. “These are… really good,” he says finally, looking up at me with something like awe. “You caught moments nobody else would notice.”

I shrug, trying to hide the warmth creeping into my chest. “It’s just… what I see.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Exactly what you see.”

I laugh quietly, the sound strange in my own ears, and take one last hit before passing the joint back. The smoke drifts between us, curling around our hands on the table. For a moment, the rest of the world disappears—just me, him, the music, and the city noise coming faintly through the walls.

He leans closer, tilting his head to look at the photos again. “You should bring this camera everywhere. You’ll end up with a collection that actually matters.”

I bite my lip, thinking about how easy it would be to believe him. I glance at him, the smoke framing his face like a halo, and feel that quiet flicker of something I can’t quite name, but maybe want to keep.

We head to a bar, and he orders two mojitos. I drink mine quickly, taking pictures of him between sips, trying to capture every angle before the moment slips away.

The bar is playing “Deirdre” by the Beach Boys, low and fuzzy through the speakers. We sway side to side, bodies moving in rhythm without thought. He slips his arm around my waist, fingers brushing against my ribs like he’s memorizing them. I rest my head on his shoulder, feeling the weight of him, the ease of being close, and for the first time all day, I don’t reach for my camera.

He keeps his arm around my waist as we move, slow and off‑beat, like neither of us is trying very hard. The music thumps through the floor, through my shoes, up my legs. His fingers trace the ridges of my ribs again, absentminded, almost curious. Normally, I would stiffen, pull away, and wonder what I look like from the outside. 

I think about all the other times—standing at parties with a drink I don’t want, hands hovering uselessly at my sides, reaching for something to anchor me. A hand. A camera. Anything solid. I’ve always needed an object, a role, a reason to exist in a room. Tonight, his arm feels like that object. Something to lean into without apologizing.

“Hey,” he says softly, close to my ear. “You okay?”

I nod, my forehead pressing into his shoulder. “Yeah. Just—here.”

“Well, I like you being here.” 

He smiles at me, tightening his grip for a second, grounding. The bar smells like mint and citrus and sweat. Someone laughs too loudly behind us. Glass clinks against glass. I lift my camera again out of habit, but this time I don’t take a picture. I just hold it there, resting against my chest, like a familiar shield.

We have sex on the bed in the apartment. I leave my camera on the nightstand, lens tilted toward us, silent and patient. Every so often, I catch myself glancing at it, trying to see what I look like from the outside, but the effort feels futile. The edges blur—the room, the light, the space between us—and I let him take over, surrendering to the moment instead of analyzing it. The camera stays there, a quiet witness, as I finally let myself exist without framing, without distance, without apology.

“You’re perfect,” he tells me numerous times. 

“I’m not.” 

“I wish that you could see how perfect you are.” 

I fall asleep on his chest, his arms wrapped around me. 

We eat poffertjes and appeltaart for breakfast, the sweetness sticking faintly to our fingers. He smokes a cigarette, offering it to me now and then, and I take it, inhale lightly, and let the smoke curl lazily around me.

I flip open my journal and start to draw him, line by line. His curly, dirty-blonde hair, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his shoulders slump just slightly when he leans back. Every small detail I capture feels like a tether, a way to hold him here, even as the morning light stretches across the apartment and softens the edges of everything.

He catches me sketching and smiles, leaning over to watch. “You’re serious,” he says, amused.

“Yeah,” I murmur, biting my lip. “Trying to remember it all.”

He chuckles and takes a long drag, then exhales slowly, the smoke drifting over my pages. “You’ll never forget,” he says.

I glance up from the journal, meet his eyes, and I believe him. The camera sits on the counter, forgotten, while the pencil in my hand seems to anchor me more than anything ever has. The quiet intimacy of breakfast, the sweetness of the food, the curl of smoke, and the simple act of drawing him—it all folds together, and I realize that this, right here, is the part of life I’ve always been chasing.

He grabs my camera, holds it up, and snaps a picture of me. I am dumbfounded.

“Wait—what are you doing?” I groan.

“Just trying to see what it’s like when you take pictures,” he says, shrugging. “And… you looked too good not to.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, my face going hot. “Thank you.” 

And for once, I’m not reaching for something to stand between me and the world. I’m not hiding behind the camera or studying myself from a distance. I’m just here—in my body, in the frame, letting myself be seen without trying to correct the angle.