by Rebecca Bernard

I found myself in Niceville, Florida. It was a place I’d written about a while back. Then I was there. We had the top down and the sun was on us and all the surrounding earth.

In a movie I was watching, the camera would pan to the side sometimes. It would show desert and land and sky and the effect was a calming thing. It said: Here is also what is happening. It said: The world is outside of this particular frame, too. Look, it keeps going.

In Niceville I scanned the strip malls for my character. I knew he was either in a bar or outside of one. I knew he was thinking about the heat in the asphalt under his feet. I didn’t see him. I knew I wasn’t going to.

A sign on an overpass spelled Will You Marry Me Wilma Jane in white solo cups. It seemed like a big deal. We said, Isn’t that something. We agreed it was.

I wanted to ask him if his father’s deserting the family was really so bad, but because he’s a character it would be like asking myself.

I liked how quiet the scenes in the movie were. A desolate place in Spain or the like. I wondered if it was still so dry there. If wind was still blowing open white curtains. The characters stuck in time and space. Not moving for fear of dying off.

Our lives are built of frames for seeing the world. With the right light things are one way. Lose the light and you’re somewhere else. Only it’s the same place.

We watched the sunset on the beach. It was cold but I kept thinking–a photo would make this something else. The world could be warm in a photo. In a photo it could be anything. Perhaps, we too, are in Spain.

On the drive home there was a new sign on the overpass. A birthday message. We realized that what had seemed one way was actually another. Too bad.

For a minute there, it had all felt pretty special.