My First Touch: Awakening to the Discarded Lovers in My Photo Album
In the dim, jaundiced glow of my Paris studio, that first evening haunts me still. Pockets empty after a fruitless hunt on rain-slicked sidewalks. No new treasures. Just the heavy albums on my sagging shelf. Heart thudding uneven. I pull one down, the one with the solos. The headless woman first. Picked her up rue…