What the Camera Kept

She said everyone looks good.

I scrolled past my own face. I should

have stopped there, but I found

hers—the smile, and just below, the ground

of that crease between her brows.

I've read it since I was small. It allows

for two explanations: worry,

or the effort of composure. The story

of the afternoon itself was fine.

The soup was good. The line

of talk went the usual way.

Nothing heavy. She seemed okay.

I've zoomed in on the photo twice—

three times—until the precise

thing I'm looking for dissolves

to pixels. The question solves

itself into: I don't know.

I put the phone down. The slow

drag of picking it back up.

Her face. The smile. The cup

of her expression, slightly

guarded. I might be

reading it wrong.

I keep opening it.