A Thousand Boy Kisses(75)

His passion had broken through.

Finally.

“This picture is one of the most controversial pictures ever taken,” he informed me quietly, still focused on the image. “The photographer was covering the famine in Africa. As he was taking his pictures, he saw this child walking for help, and this vulture waiting by, sensing death.” He took a breath. “This picture showed, in one image, the extent of the famine more than all the previous written reports ever did.” Rune looked at me. “It made people sit up and pay attention. It showed them, in all its brutal severity, how bad the famine had grown.” He pointed back at the child, crouched on the ground. “Because of this picture, aid work increased, the press covered more of the people’s struggles.” He took a deep breath. “It changed their world.”

Not wanting to stop his momentum, we walked to the next one. “Do you know what this one is about?”

Most of the photographs, I struggled to look at. Most were of pain, most were of suffering. But to a photographer, although graphic and heart-wrenchingly difficult to view, they held a certain type of poetic grace. They held a deep and endless message, all captured in a single frame.

“It was a protest—the Vietnam war. A Buddhist monk set himself on fire.” Rune’s head dipped and tipped to the side, studying the angles. “He never flinched. He took the pain to make a statement that peace should be achieved. It highlighted the plight and the futility of that war.”

And the day rolled on, Rune explaining almost every picture. When we reached the final shot, it was a black-and-white picture of a young woman. It was old; her hair and make-up seemed to be from the sixties. She appeared to be around twenty-five in the picture. And she was smiling.

It made me smile too.

I looked to Rune. He shrugged, silently telling me that he didn’t know the picture either. The title simply read, “Esther”. I searched the guidebook for the information, my eyes immediately brimming with water when I read the inspiration. When I read why this picture was here.

“What?” Rune asked, his eyes flashing with worry.

“Esther Rubenstein. The late wife of the patron of this exhibition.” I blinked, and finally managed to finish, “Died aged twenty-six, of cancer.” I swallowed the emotion in my throat and stepped closer to Esther’s portrait.

“Placed in this exhibition by her husband, who never remarried. He took this picture, and hung it in this exhibition. It reads that even though this picture didn’t change the world, Esther changed his.”

Slow tears trickled down my cheeks. The sentiment was beautiful; the honor was breathtaking.

Wiping my tears away, I glanced back at Rune, who had turned away from the picture. My heart sank. I moved before him. His head was hanging low. I pushed back the hair from his face. The tortured expression that greeted me tore me in two.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked, through a thick throat.

“Because this is what you love.” I gestured around the room. “Rune, this is NYU Tisch. This is where you wanted to attend. I wanted you to see what you could achieve one day. I wanted you to see what your future could still hold.”

Rune’s eyes closed. When they opened, he caught my stifled yawn. “You’re tired.”

“I’m fine,” I argued, wanting to address this now. But I was tired. I wasn’t sure I could do much more without some rest.

Rune threaded his hand through mine and said, “Let’s go rest before tonight.”

“Rune,” I tried to argue, to talk about this more, but Rune swung around and quietly said, “Poppymin, please. No more.” I could hear the strain in his voice. “New York was our dream. There’s no New York without you. So please…” He trailed off, then sadly whispered, “Stop.”

Not wishing to see him so broken, I nodded. Rune kissed my forehead. This kiss was soft. It was thankful.

We left the exhibition, and Rune hailed a cab. In minutes we were en route back to the hotel. As soon as we got into the suite, Rune lay down with me in his arms.

He didn’t speak as I drifted to sleep. I fell asleep with the image of Esther in my mind, wondering how her husband had healed after she had returned home.

Wondered if he had even healed at all.



*



“Poppymin?”

Rune’s soft voice called me from sleep. I blinked into the darkness of the room, only to feel Rune’s gentle finger running down my cheek.

“Hey, baby,” he said quietly, when I rolled over to face him. Reaching out, I turned on the lamp. When the light flickered on, I focused on Rune.

A smile tugged on my lips. He wore a tight white t-shirt under a brown blazer. His black skinny jeans were on his legs, familiar black suede boots on his feet. I tugged on the lapels of his blazer. “You’re looking real smart, baby.”

Rune’s lips molded into a half-smile. He leaned forward and took my mouth gently with his. When he pulled back, I noticed his hair was freshly washed and dried. And unlike every other day, today he’d run a comb through it, the golden strands feeling silky between my fingers.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked. I stretched out my arms and legs.

“A little tired and sore from all the walking, but I’m okay.”

Rune’s forehead lined with worry. “You sure? We don’t have to go tonight if you’re not feeling up to it.”