Snap.

In the picture she is smiling, open-mouthed, face forward, eyes slantways watching him.

He is not looking at her, but directly through the lens at me on the other side of the camera. Lips parted, hair cropped close in the attempt to look GQ or Abercrombie - or like someone from some other place I don't shop. His short wool coat is dark gray, clean lines. I'd like to know him better.

She's wearing tan mules with small heels, desperate for sophistication. Loose blond hair betrays her truth. She has her legs crossed under her short handkerchief skirt, exposed knees held together against the fierce wind and the camera's watchful eye.

Her toe points toward him. She hopes for their future. His feet point west, away from her. He knows he'll be gone by the end of the month. Maybe even the end of the week.

I hold the camera out as he crosses the plaza to me. She grabs her cell phone out of her Dooney & Bourke bag, faces east.

"Thanks for taking our picture," he says.

Between the two of us, four hands on his camera.

I let go. "Not a problem. It turned out well."

He inhales to say something. I look down, smile, and turn west.

The wind smacks us as we walk separate paths.