A Double-Edged Sword

She stares into the photo for a few seconds before finally confirming to herself that she actually knows who it is. The boxed photo at the corner of the tabloid is relatively small, quite blurry, almost pixelized. But she cannot be mistaken, she knows him too well. She knows every single detail of his face – from the lines of his jaws to the bridge of his nose, from the curb of his lips to the waves of his hair, from the way he walks and talks, the way he smiles, the way he frowns. Above all, she very well knows how he holds a hand, how he used to slide his fingers in between hers, squeeze it and let her feel the warmth of his palm. So she is sure, it is really him who is in the photo. 

It was not a photo of another drunk-til-you-drop night in LA or a shot of his weed-smoking groupies. This time, it is a photo of him and a woman. No, it is not any blonde woman with whom he is caught with in a thousand and one paparazzi photos featuring them wasted outside a bar or smoking pipe. She looks quite a decent one, with a pretty face. He is holding her hand. He is not holding it the way that he used to. He did not put his fingers in between hers, instead, he wrapped his fingers around her hand, showing his ring and hiding hers. He holds it in such a way that appears like he wants to get hold of her, all of her, in an instant; encompass all of her, own her. She does not know if he was just in a hurry that he just grabbed her hand and pulled her away, or is just that he just wanted to hold her in such a way that he does not want to let her go. Not anymore. Not like the way he let go of others including her. 

It is not just that that bothers her big time, but more so the way he looks in the photo. His face is… bland, expressionless. And this is what she cannot take. She would have preferred seeing him with a smile. At least she knows what a smile means and what a smile does not. But a bland face? What does it say about him? What does it say to her? He is looking sideways, turned a little on his right, as if looking at something, something unknown. He is not looking at the woman but at something else, as if looking away, far away into space. The line of his jaws are well-defined, the waves of his hair covering his forehead and almost his eyes. His lips are parted a little, not sure if he just said something after the photo was taken or probably would just about to say something. She cannot tell and she hates that feeling. She hates the feeling that she could not understand the language of this photo.

This photo is like a double-edged sword, she thought. It can either preserve a lie or expose the truth. If there is anyone who knows this fact very well, it is her. She has been playing with the camera ever since she was thirteen. She knows how to make a face that would sell. She knows how to force a smile after she woke up on the wrong side of the bed. But she also knows how to smile big time when hse feels like doing so. In front of the camera, she gets to show what she wants and it is what will stay forever in that frozen moment in time. 

She knows that this photo in the tabloid has a story, like all other photos do, but she is not quite sure what this photo wants to say. The photo hurts her good enough, but not understanding it hurts even more. In that bland, emotionless face, she could not decipher anything. Is that the face of regret concealed behind a mask of absolute resolve for things that could not be undone or a face of utter peace that does not need any extreme expressions to convey what he truly feels?