A Good Photo of My Face

On 50th Street, near the flow of tourists, I take a picture of myself and send it to Peter, Yuli, Greg, Matt, Seamus, Clay, Alexi, Roland. I haven't shot a good photo of myself in months, but I look beautiful today and the sun blocks most of the wrongs on my face. A man texts back: Good morning, gorgeous boy. Another: Tell me a secret. I think of a secret and crave a safe, private room to sit down in. I start to walk home before more replies come. In front of a diner, I try to take one more photo while the day is shining and kind, but I already look different, squished now, like a pane of glass has begun to push on my face. The sun is no longer on my side. I send the good photo to Jeff, Jay, Brian and retreat home at top speed.responds to my good photo with a dinner invitation for tonight. I say yes but then panic. I haven't seen Matt in four years. Four years ago, we went on three sweet dates. Back then as a college student, the world felt so open to me. Friends and I walked into galleries and restaurants, acting courted. We made showpieces of ourselves. We were in the back of party photos, tucked behind big names and little names, our names ignored, our blurry faces sneaking into several magazines. But lately everything feels closed to me. Or I wish everything felt closed to me. I have lost momentum. Matt says, Thai food 8PM? I don't answer. Matt says, Still good for tonight? Matt says, Hello? Hello? Matt says, You're doing this again? Matt says, Annoying bitch.PeterYuli Greg SeamusClayAlexiRolandJeffJayBrianhas four kids, two cats, a rabbit, a horse, a goldendoodle, a parakeet, and a large number of fish. The large number is 20, maybe 25. I haven't figured out whether or not Greg still has a spouse. But he must. He has four kids he calls lazy, and he's lazy himself, yet the animals seem cared for by someone capable. In my well-worn bed, when I imagine his spouse, I sometimes picture a woman, sometimes a man, and sometimes myself. I know how to ride a horse. Kids love to swing from my long arms. I'd make a good spouse. I look spouse-like in photos. Whenever Greg sends me pictures of his handsome, rocky face, I check the background for clues of a larger life. He never leaves any.is who responded Good morning, gorgeous boy. I only met Clay once, five years ago, but we stay in touch through photos. Five years ago, he took me on a date, Hawaiian food. I no longer remember what Hawaiian food is. Clay is a man who will always respond, Gorgeous boy. When I've texted smart, or texted funny, he answers Gorgeous boy as if my words have floated up and formed a cute outline of my face. On our date, Clay walked me home and bought me stamps at CVS; I didn't know they sold stamps or that I needed stamps, but Clay seemed to think that, with no stamps, I couldn't exist in the world. I wanted to retaliate by declaring something weird he couldn't do without, but my mind works best when I've had time to draft language on a phone. Outside my dorm, he put the stamps between my teeth as if I earned them with my face. He took a photo of me with my new tiger stamps, a photo he said captured my soul. He said, “My sweet innocent,” and showed me the photo. I did look sweet. I did look innocent.is Irish of course. I know nothing about Irish men, nothing about Seamus. When I send Seamus pictures of myself, he either says come over or he doesn't. Both outcomes are fine by me. Whenever I do go over, he fucks me quickly. I'm in and out in five minutes. He tries to keep me shoved inside the pictures on his phone.gets sent my good photos and my bad. He has pictures of me with puffy cheeks and ugly skin, pictures where my face looks twerpy, punchable, gray, pictures close to how I might really be. If I scroll back through our conversations, I see a pop-up book of a boy who isn't doing very well. Jay is no different from the rest of the men in my phone. He is just the man to whom once I sent a bad photo, and then haphazardly sent more. When I send bad photos, I feel truthful, righteous—the world thanks me for my honesty—and then unhappy. I also send Jay secrets. He's started to ask for them. Tell me a secret, he'll text, as he did today, and I'll respond. I've admitted that I worry about the expiration dates on my eye creams. And that I take my contact lenses out to look in the mirror through fuzzy, gentle eyes. And that, when I had more friends, I gave bad haircuts to three when they wronged me. And that I've eaten quarters to make a man laugh. Today I text Jay, I've convinced myself that it's great to be lonely. And he responds, Good boy. It's big of you to admit that.sometimes replies with these little narratives when I send a photo. Today he writes, You're my beautiful king. You've just given our kingdom free bread for a year and free muffins. Every peasant comes to kiss you on the cheek. You kiss some on the forehead and you're made our ruler for eternity. I feel held in high regard. I pull my blanket around my throat: my cape.used to gossip with me in college. He let me in on his Southern Boy Bitchiness, as he called it. Professors were his main objects of judgment—mine too. He made fun of their waists if they lifted their arms up too high and showed skin. I made fun of the ones who looked jealous of us students. But now, at work, and almost always in public, I shy away from gazes as if any candid glance my way could reveal me to be some sort of unedited ogre. When Roland and I were in college, he took careful pictures of me performing studiousness in the back of lectures. I can make my face a serious thing. Roland fiddled with those photos and told me I should model. I don't think he was being bitchy, but he could've been. I went to a few castings, hoping to find an outlet for my face. One was for a student fashion show, the other for Burberry. At Burberry, they told me nothing. I'm never told anything of value about myself. There I faced the camera. I turned to the left, the right. I showed my shoulders and then went home. At the casting for the student fashion show, I walked across the long, intimidating room, pretending a fan was blowing me forward. “You're maybe too ordinary,” someone told me. And then the student designer said I'd only get work doing before-and-after headshots for hairdressers working in strip malls.once helped me shake a stalker. He pretended to be my landlord on a day my stalker hid for hours in the stairwell. Brian and I put on headphones in that exposing hallway and he showed me pretend footage on a monitor of my stalker harassing me, hitting the apartment door, pleading to get inside, crying, spitting, begging to hurt me, begging to disfigure me. With authority, Brian said, “If this guy comes back, we know what he looks like and we'll get him.” I only saw the stalker once more, seated three rows in front of me at Hamilton, looking too normal. Today was the first time I sent Brian a picture of my face. He lives in Chicago now. He's a bad texter. He hasn't been texting. I've been texting a lot. But to my good photo, he replies: How many men did you send this to? I say, Just you, and dream of lassoing him to my apartment. He doesn't believe me. He is offended. So I write:I'm very, very sorry.I shouldn't be subjecting you to selfies.I just miss you.Coming back soon?I wish we talked more.I'm sorry.Miss you.has pictures of my feet and pictures of my nails and pictures of my ass and penis. He's not the only one, of course. So do Clay, Greg, Matt, Seamus, Jay, and Peter. But when I send a photo of my feet to Yuli, he responds with one of his. When I send a picture of my hands, he sends me back his hands stuck in whatever delicate pose mine were hitting. Yuli knows how to arch his back like mine. We both have wavy hair and sharp chins. We are ten-year-olds playing follow the leader.says, You should've invited me if you were going outside. I ignore him to respond to Jeff, to Greg. I play Jeff's king and then Greg's spouse and then Jeff's king and then Greg's spouse. Alexi and I used to party together in college. Like me, he was a showpiece, a blurry presence in magazine photos. A year ago, through a timid text conversation, Alexi and I learned that we both were having trouble leaving our apartments. So we decided to go for walks together. We met at our old dorm—a five minute walk already—and walked four blocks to the park and back. He held my phone. I held his. The next week we walked eight blocks. And then 12, and then 20. We mostly talked about college and our pleasant apartments. But he also told me he spends hours talking to his mother on the phone each day. “I spend hours texting men,” I said. “What do you say to them?” he asked. “I think it's more about seeing what they'll say to me.” Soon our walks stopped, after which I tried to leave my apartment regularly, not just for work or food, not just for photos. I had little success. On the days I managed to travel more than five blocks from home, I, proudly, vainly, let Alexi know. Now Alexi says, How'd you make it outside today? It doesn't feel like that was today. I say, I go outside so I have photos to send you. He says, Let's go outside together next week. This morning, my body pulled me from the apartment. The sun pulled me through the city. I ate an almond croissant and ended up near tourists. Did I have a good morning? I send an okay selfie to Alexi from bed and say, I'd love a walk, I think. I hope we make that happen.has never met me in person. He has these pictures of my face and my body and he has these texts that I write when I feel furthest from myself. I have pictures and words from Peter too. They stack and spill in my mind, forming more of a mountain or a mound than a human image. I am always skeptical when people say they know who I am. That seems impossible, scary. To me, Peter is a puddle I barely know. My good photos float face down in him. The water weighs down the images. The water holds the images. I am a puddle too. I lay in bed and think, All I have to be is a puddle. I keep Peter near the edge of the water. All I have to be is a puddle. I weigh Peter down. I hold Peter. And then I splash Peter away.