We were at the corner bookstore, seated by a large window and watching people walk down the sidewalk. It was a cool day, sunny, the kind where it felt good to be outside bundled up amidst the fall foliage. Folks were out enjoying the morning.

A woman walked up and stopped under one of the Ginkgo trees planted alongside the road. She was pretty, perhaps in her early 40s and dressed stylishly, wearing a wool peacoat, black slacks, and sunglasses. Posing there under the yellow leaves she lifted up her phone and started snapping selfies.

I watched as she experimented with the lighting, slight variations in the tilt of her head, the perfect amount of duck lips. She reminded me of the preparation it takes to hone your craft, whittling away as the years pass by, minding the smallest details and occasionally capturing that attention in a polished work or piece. In this case, the perfect Instagram photo.

This went on for four or five minutes, and I stared at her like you might an animal burrowing a nest, fastidiously digging until the hole is just right. But then, as I watched her I noticed something unsettling. The camera on the back of her phone was pointed directly at me. I began to wonder if she might not be taking photos of herself at all.

I looked over to Hugh who was gazing out the window, his strong hands wrapped around a warm cappuccino. He looked happy as he placed his lips to the edge of the cup and blew at the steam before taking a sip. Seeing him, I smiled, though I knew my eyes betrayed the sadness growing in my chest. I hadn’t come to expect the way I would feel about him, and now it was time for me to go.

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