he had the consistency of a Perpignan train station. his thumb, pressed against, could cause little bodily vibrations. he was not bothered by his morning hair like some people can be. he was only bothered that it was the morning, and he had to get out of bed, and he needed his coffee. whispering.. “but I could do this all day” but we’re dressing, undressing, we’re at a cafe now, and as he reaches across the table he says “I like film because it’s not about how good you look it’s about the moment, you’re being present, you don’t go back and look at the shot you took, it’s done, you move on” he lifts his plastic cup up and points to the bottom “do you have this in Singapore? we used to do this as children. what’s your number? mine’s 17.” “mine’s 34” “come here..let me see…” he splits the croissants between us. I say “you like it that I’m angry” and he says “it’s better than being empty” “come here…come here….” i clumsily take his photo. he clumsily leaves his thumb drive behind. “keep it” I don’t want to. but he was destined to be the one who moves forward, and very early in our encounter it was already too late.