Fantastic Metropolis

“So build one,” she said, not knowing why; it just came out that way.

“Well, there’s that whole thing with the film and what’s it called—processing? I need something simpler, a beginner’s camera.”

And Susan suddenly remembered the History of Photography course she’d taken at art college, and picking up a stick she drew him the design of a pinhole in the sand.

“It captures?” he asked, astounded.

“Not. It projects. And upside down. But our eyes do that too; it’s the same principle, a lens. Talk to the guy who makes your eyeglasses; he’d understand and explain it better than I can.”

“But I want to capture the pictures on paper. A real camera.”

“Silver emulsion. I don’t know. You’d have to get the right chemical formula, experiment, or I could try and look it up for you, bring it next time I come. If I come again.”

“I don’t have that one. Could I come visit you, maybe borrow it or just look through it?”

Sure. Whatever. But she asked, “Could you visit? Have you done that before?”

“No. Now we’ve finally met, I will. I’ve thought of you, even made a present to bring you. Thought if I did that I’d actually go.”

“You shouldn’t have.” What else to say?

“Want to go to the beach now, see if it’s still there?”

“I’d love to, some other time. But I should be getting home.” Because it’s all too weird again.

“Why?”

“Work,” she deflected. “I’m a painter,” she said, “you know, an artist.”

“Oh. What are you painting right now?”

“A place. It’s a lot like this, except it’s a beach.”

He nodded. “Come see my boat before you go?”

“Okay.”

It was like skipping stones, their conversation. Like going on a scavenger hunt into another dimension, having run out of places on Earth to look. She felt as if she’d painted it and then stepped in, this crazy adventure, this whole gossamer-fine world that felt so alarmingly real. Butterfly wings crumbling in too bright sunlight. Don’t look in the shadows among rose bushes. Don’t.

However rosy they smell.

Still, she liked it so.

If I don’t find her here, I might yet find her cure. If I do find her here, it doesn’t mean I’ll find her Earth-side.

Earth-side. Now there’s a word. Alien. Shivery.

Stiv stood, and she followed, walked beside him back the way they’d come, turned left this time on the track past the largest dune she’d seen yet; children played with trowels and hurled themselves down the sides. They’d be needing hot solar showers before they went home to dinner, Susan thought, else they’d sleep in gritty sheets for weeks. Hope there’s enough water.

“Mashed Potatoes Mountain,” Stiv said.

“I beg your pardon?”