Julia

When I arrived, she was cleaning the kitchen. I sat at the small table in the corner and produced two bottles of wine—a white and a red. It had been months since I'd visited her at her apartment, and I didn't want to arrive empty-handed. She poured me a glass of white, herself the red, and said she was nearly finished, needing only to dust the carpet and rinse the trash can. "No rush," I said.

When she finished, she joined me at the table, sipping her wine and asking what she should do. "Whatever you'd normally do after a long day of work," I responded. So she sat, resting, wiping her brow from the heat and sipping the warm wine, remarking that a few small fruit flies had found their way into the glass.

After some time she got up, and I followed her to the living room. We discussed our plans for the upcoming Fourth of July weekend and the rest of summer. She rolled a joint as I repositioned a floor lamp, attempting to extend the fading daylight. In her presence, I felt a sense of calmness and serenity. What began as a photoshoot transformed into two friends catching up, with occasional moments of inspiration prompting a shot. 

This exploration of friendship continued for another hour or so as we navigated her typical Monday evening and, in turn, the rooms of her apartment.