You know how memories are. They come and go. A succession of unrelated colorful fragments. They’re triggered by virtually anything. Like the odd swirl of brown and white of cappuccino. Or the scent of an Italian cheroot. I thought of Ed Hart, my photo editor at UPI, a long time ago in New York, when cameras used what they called film.
“Still mooning about what’s-her-name?” Ed said.
“I’m trying hard to get over her,” I replied
“Bullshit. You never let anything go.”
Ed deftly clipped off a five-frame section of a 35-mm filmstrip and inserted it into a negative scanner. On the monitor president Bill Clinton, grinning and waving at the door of his limo, appeared on the screen. Ed tapped out a caption, reading from a Reuter’s dispatch that had just come in.
“Take it from someone even older than you,” Ed said, not looking up. “Life is learning to dance.”
“I think I’d like to sit this one out.”
“I didn’t finish, smartass. At the end you finally learn to dance—alone.”