London, England. The Science Museum. A raining, foggy morning in June 2014. An Ending.
The camera shutter flickers. In the millisecond of the flutter's release and return a captured pattern burns on digital negative space, forgotten for the next flash and the next. This place is too interesting for monastic contemplation of pixels in rows and columns. Too tidily charismatic for deeper composition.
'One of them will be good', she thinks. 'It can be a painting, if the photograph bombs. Source material. A memory jog at the lean end of the scale.'
She snaps the button and fiddles with the pop up flash on her DSLR. The fellow adventurer is busy fondling emotional miles, off searching the undercarriage of a plane held on wires, as most things are held in this place. Thin filaments of near invisible line tied in retentive knots at tops and awkward middles; suspend miracles to the eyes of everyone racing, running and gap-mouth staring in the Museum. London is the best place for museums within travelling budgets.
She points her portrait lens at another three dimensionally printed shape suspended behind clear acrylic or thick glass. Angled right, she'll miss the reflection and the thrill purges the burn in her knee. Consecutive rows and geometric furrows hold her in a rugged fascination. The shutter flutters. The lens whirs.
Divination mathematicians sequestered the starry veil into Pythagorean Ratios and spheres of heavenly perfection. An aptitude she knows not. She knows no math like these giants whose forms of paper and glass struck the Belle Époque of scientific resound. Their forms and undulations rebuke her and her digital camera. Snap snap. Snap. Snap. The fellow traveller growls and moves on, boots clipping on the museum floor.
Flights of fanciful alloy birds drift off with the heady weather. Heavier than heavy water, the fellow traveller plods on. She snaps and snaps. Her shoes clip clop behind him, eager to fling herself upon another waiting relic hidden from nimble fingers behind acetate and glass. Simple shapes steal her. Run her ego aground on a craggy shore of divine geometry.
He packs in the morning. Bed empty, he slept elsewhere as he always would. She falls backward into the Museum, her camera lens whirring and her feet burning in her shoes. Europe didn't suit him, pictures fascinated none of his attentions. Her pictures staggered in hot snaps. Clips filled memory cards and she prayed the time wouldn't revert to the days of the Cray 1 Supercomputer, where flimsy and malleable rolls of film took precedent over light waves, over luggage space. Over drifting waves between the traveller and her camera.
Finite buttons exist encased in scientific obliteration. Never to be pushed, they have outlived their usefulness. They will never outlive the simplicity of a trotting, serial order, nor will their years of use be condemned as flights of fancy. She raises her camera, before meeting a cousin for pints and flirtations with random Scotsmen. Click, click. Click, click. Click.... click.