Nono is a model of sorts. A model of socks. Her ankles are slender, not bony; athletic. Her feet wear the socks well: high arches, long toes, slightly narrow body. Nono is charismatic. She is busy and she is popular.
You is a photographer of sorts. A photographer of hands, of feet. He brings a unique aesthetic to his art; the angles, the juxtapositions, the light. He is not happy in his work or in his life, although it does not show in his body or in his manner. In fact, You is known by his friends and colleagues as Mr. Sunshine. You is a professional. He is busy and he is in love with Nono.
"I will take a photo of you," he says to Nono. "One hour before you die."
"I may well die today," says Nono. "Have you a decent camera in your trunk?"
"A new one," says You. "It is a half frame with automatic film advance. And it is very small. It hasn't left my person since it arrived."
You pulls the camera from the inside pocket of his coat. Nono thinks maybe it is a handheld movie camera. It appears to have a telephone dial attached to the front.
"It looks like a miniature time machine," she says.
"It's a Canon Dial 35," says You. My other cameras cannot keep up.
Nono kneels upon a zabuton. She snorts a line of cocaine from a hand mirror that rests on a table in front of her.
"This is Japan," she says. "This is 1964."
"This is Manhattan," You replies as he snaps pictures of Nono. "And these years of yours, they are days for me."
"I cannot sleep," says Nono, unaware that there is now blood smeared across the back of her hand and underneath her nose. "What time is it?"
"You are outside of time," says You.
"I am struggling to understand you," says Nono. "I am very high right now. I have a shoot. My car will be here at 4pm. It is written on my palm."
"You still have 59 minutes left," says You, as he lays his Canon Dial 35 down beside an empty bottle of whiskey. "We should make love."