"I've got to go out and shoot," I say to Andrea.
It seems like we have been in bed for months. Now that I think about, we have been in bed for months, at least since July. Well, not every waking moment, just from when the sun goes down to when the sun comes up. Problem is, that's the usual time I'm out shooting.
Andrea just looks at me and smiles. Does that smile mean 'Yes, it's ok, honey. Go out and shoot?', or does that grin mean, 'You silly boy. Who do you think you're fooling? I'm beautiful, half your age, and willing to have sex with you anytime you like. Do you really thinking you're going out into the desert and shoot photographs tonight?'
"I really got to go out and shoot, Andrea. You don't mind, do you?" I ask.
"Of course not. Go."
She smiles again. It doesn't help matters that she is naked in my bed.
"I'll go tomorrow night." I say. "The moon will still be pretty full then."
"Okay." She says, and reaches out for me.
It's tomorrow night and I did make it out into the desert after all. It was hard. Really hard not just stay home and go to bed with Andrea. But I'm being philosophically about not having great sex tonight. 'I'm going to make something,' I say to myself. Deep down I know this artistic rationalization isn't working, but I'm here in a Saguaro cactus forest west of town, and Andrea is back in Tucson. Might as well shoot.
I visit an old friend who is an old Saguaro. Tall with many arms and one arm that droops down, instead of up. Very unusual for a Saguaro to have a droopy arm that doesn't fall off or decay quickly. This Saguaro is probably close to 150 years old and is still plump from the summer monsoon rains. Its downward arm is just above my eye level.
I set up the shot and gently pass the Zippo around the arm, careful not to burn the cactus. Leave the shutter open and then go for a walk. Return. Close the shutter. Repeat. Open. Then Zippo. Return. Repeat. I walk between shots through the Jumping Chollas, and the tall Saguaros, and the fragrant Mesquites, in this thick Sonoran desert near the Tucson Mountains.
I think of Andrea on the walks, and wonder what the hell am I doing. This isn't going to last, I think. She's too young, plus she says some of the oddest things, things that are hard to believe sometimes, like all the places she's been, and all the wounds she carries. Is her MS really that bad? She looks OK. And then there was that Sunday afternoon when she was curled up in a ball under my chair, while I was watching golf on TV. What was that about? She didn't really have an answer for that at the time, as I recall. And then there was that other time she suddenly lost all feeling in her legs when we were having an argument, and then just as suddenly, the feeling returned. That could have been stress related, I guess. She is an odd girl. Great sex or not, this relationship is most likely, short for this world, I think to myself. Problem is I'm caught like an eel that's swallowed the hook. And I have a gut feeling that something isn't quite right. Can't put my finger on it.
I walk back to my droopy Saguaro friend. That's enough exposures, I think, after having taken four or five. I pack up my equipment and before I leave, I let my head fall back and look up at the Milky Way. Thick as paint in the sky. I'm dizzy but it's just fine with me. I level my head and say goodbye to the Saguaro, touching his horizontal arm. Slowly I walk back to my yellow Nissan King Cab. I'll see Andrea tomorrow night.
[Note: I found out just a couple weeks later, that Andrea had either greatly exaggerated or out right lied about most of her life. The final straw was when she said that she had been in the hospital overnight, and when I called the hospital the next morning, they hadn't heard of her. I reluctantly broke it off, soon after that, but I was still in love with her and I continued to allow her to infrequently come by my house, to just chat, for almost a year. It's sometimes hard for me to let go, especially when I'm letting go of a beautiful, young, sexy yet troubled woman who swings from the chandeliers.]