At first she just left them lying around, like magazine subscription cards, or the magazines themselves. Her aunt had sent her a Polaroid camera and two dozen boxes of film; I'd be staring out the window in our front door, waiting for the cat to come home for dinner, or working on the puzzle we'd bought, of Klimt's Flower Garden, when suddenly I'd hear the snap of the shutter and the motor of the eject. More often than not, at least at the beginning, the sounds came from nearby: there she'd be, lowering the camera from her face, from my face, hand poised to receive the picture. Then she'd lay the picture face down on whatever surface was near me. She'd read the film developed better that way.

From the foyer, the living room, the bathroom. Then, later, on the table by the front door where we piled our...

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