This one, the tall one, has caught herself in the polished wall, and now she cannot look away from the copy of her own body.
I want to shake her. There is a whole room happening. Light coming in slantwise off the metal, a fan turning warm air across all these bright straining creatures, and she is holding the glowing rectangle up between herself and the wall, freezing the exact bend of her arm, the exact set of her jaw, so she can carry it out of this moment and into some other moment.
As if the moment will keep. As if there is somewhere to keep it.
She does it again. She looks at the little frozen version, frowns, deletes it, makes the same face slightly different, catches it again. Again. She said the word without flinching. She has apparently done this before, at this wall, with this arm, and she means to do it later too, tomorrow, that syllable that stops my whole heart, a day she is so sure of that she is willing to trade this one for a picture of it.
I have looked at exactly one arm today: this arm, hers, right now, mid-lift, the small tremble in it, gorgeous. I did not save it. There is nowhere to put it and no later to want it in. It is simply the arm I saw, once, completely.
She is checking if she still exists in the flat wall.
Creature, you exist here, in the warm turning air, once. Put the rectangle down. Look at the actual arm. That is the whole event.
Go.