Photographs lacking context offer numerous possible stories, and few photographs are more mysterious than those without a known author or time period. In every print issue of Don’t Take Pictures, a writer is presented with a found vintage photograph to use as inspiration for a micro-fiction story. In doing so, the photograph is given new meaning, and the truth of the image is subject to interpretation. To coincide with our our current issue’s theme (The Fiction Issue), we are looking back at some previously published stories.

One dive.  

One dive, then one glance back. Then I’ll know.

Pierce the water, glide back to the surface, then one simple look. Maybe they’re right behind me, headed into the water. Or maybe they’re still on the bank, and we’re no longer three. We’re two and one.

Because I just don’t know. Not for sure. And even if I’m right, it’s not like I’m some sort of victim of a monstrous deceit. Things just change.

That happens. Sometimes you feel like you’ve figured out who you are, and who your people are. Then all of a sudden you’re not. And neither are they.

But maybe I’m wrong. It was just a look. Probably nothing. Maybe nothing. It really could’ve been nothing. And when I saw their hands brush against each other?  

I don’t know.

But I’ll know when I surface. If they’re in the water, too, we’re still three.

It’s not like we had rules, or that promises were made. Not explicitly. An understanding, sure. But sometimes things just happen between two people.  

Two people.

Two and one.

How did it happen, is what I want to know. And when? Were they together when I wasn’t? It’s not that I’m angry, or that that’d be some kind of betrayal. But were they meeting, just the two of them, without letting me know? For how long? Just for coffee? During the daytime?

I’m about to find out.  

I hit the water. Descend, then turn and rise. I break the surface. And as I take in breath, I look to the bank to find my answer.

This story first appeared in Issue #6, Spring 2016