the formal portrait. It wasn’t the kiss. It wasn’t even the photograph of Marcos and me beneath the rosemary arch. It was a picture Jimena took from behind just before the barn doors opened. Franco stands on the left in his charcoal suit. I stand beside him in white. His arm is offered. My hand rests lightly on it. Neither of us is looking at the camera. Ahead of us, the doors are still closed. You can see light around their edges. That is all. Two people waiting for a
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