He took his camera to the park every day, chose the same bench. Every day he sat for a while, breathed in the sent of mulching leaves or the accumulated swell of buds breaking or fresh cut grass – depending on the season. Every day he poured tea from his flask, thinking how bitter it tasted, how plastic compared to freshly brewed tea from the pot. The sun would warm him, the snow chill his lips, the rain trickle down through thinning hair.
At 10 minutes past eleven every day he emptied the last of his bitter tea onto the path, screwed the cap back on the flask. At eleven minutes past eleven exactly he would take one photograph, packed up his things and go home. As each film filled with pictures he put it away in a drawer, loaded another, never developing a single one.
It wasn’t the images that mattered, after all. It was the fact that he had been there to see them.