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ʟʏᴅɪᴀ ᴅᴇᴇᴛᴢ (
2016-02-03 07:03 pm (UTC)
Hannibal's clear approval is not lost on Lydia, or taken for granted. She smiles, quite fully for what she usually offers, and pulls her bag off of her shoulders, as if she had been waiting all this time for her permission to stay.
"I guess it didn't occur to me to call..." But if it had, she may not have done so anyway. It's difficult to ask for things from adults -- so often they think of arbitrary reasons to deny requests of younger people, which is strange, given their absence of self-sufficiency and free will...
Lydia drops her bag into a chair near the desk before pulling it open. She procures not photos -- not yet -- but instead a worn hardcover book. It's old enough to have no laminated paper jacket, old enough to wear a dark inky blue woven cover with the title and author pressed into it with a reflective gold leafing that has become blotchy and faded. She flips it open and, there, the photos are pressed secure between pages 156 and 157.
"I used black and white film; I hate using it on sunny days because of the stark over-exposure, so I use it on cloudy days and just adjust the aperture." She shrugs as she places the small stack of glossy four-by-sixes on Hannibal's desk. "I don't like the result when I do it in reverse, it's not the same."
The photos do appear quite dim, but not for lack aperture adjustment. There's a sense of glowing in the hues of grey in the images of cameras behind reflective panels of glass and shelves of lenses. Lydia has only brought her most prized snapshots -- in all, ten.
The portrait piece that marked the incidence of their meeting sits on the bottom of the stack, and looks especially eerie: dark shades of cool charcoal are broken by a pale arm that, given the manipulation of light, is not immediately seen cloaked by a sleeve. In its hand, Lydia's Nikon. Within the photo, the politely ornate wooden frame of the glass is just in shot, giving the image an added flair.
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