Smile in the Photo
A Short Story for John (from a Cap by Becca?)
By Maryanne Peters

Can you fall in love with somebody you see in a photograph? Stranger yet, can you fall in love with a child in a photograph, imagining her to have grown into a creature with all the beauty and warmth in that image, but now with the body of a woman? It seems very odd, but it happened to me.

Hannah Jenkins rented one of my two bedroom apartments, and I knew that her children were grown, making it wiser to move from a large leased home only recently. In her living room were plenty of photographs of her two daughter and her young son, and then there was the photograph of the young girl in pink. She was not either of the daughters, who were not particularly attractive, particularly standing beside their good looking younger brother. But there was the photograph alongside the others.

“Well there is a story behind that one,” said Hannah, when I had drawn my interest in the photo to her attention. In fact, it was much more than interest. I was smitten. The child looked so perfect with a ribbon in her hair, in her pink dress with flowers, with painted nails in her lap, and her legs not posed.

“Do tell,” I said, without taking my eyes away.

“That is actually my son Billy,” said Hannah. “I caught him dressing up in his sister’s old clothes. We had him dress fully so that we could take a photo which we could threaten him with. But the truth is that the smile was genuine. I think that day was one the happiest in his life.”

I was shaken by what I had heard. This girl never grew up. She existed only for a day, like a golden mayfly flitting across a pond dappled with sunlight, to be dead as darkness fell. That was sad, but for me it was much worse. If she had been a woman, I would have sought her out. I would have wooed her. There was something in those deep brown eyes that called out to me, even from the paper than the image was printed on.

“You have a photo of your son dressed as a girl?” It was not an allegation. It was a question.

“I don’t have it on display when he visits,” she said. “It embarrasses him. But he just looks so happy. And so pretty. Don’t you think?”

“He is not happy now?”

“He is a bit of a failure, I’m afraid,” she said. “I think that he might be gay, but he is fighting it. He has plenty of girls, but he cannot seem to form any kind of relationship. He is lost.”

“Maybe I could help him?” I said it because I was curious to meet him. I wanted to see what the person in this image looked like now. “My properties keep me busy. I am always looking for people. How old is he?”

“He has just turned twenty, my youngest,” she added, as if trying to reassure me that she was not that old. “In fact, he is coming over tonight. He brings his washing and has me cook him a decent meal. He is a bit helpless, I suppose.”

“May I drop by after dinner?” I suggested.

She agreed, and that evening I reappeared as arranged.

Billy did not get up off the couch where he sat watching something on TV. He looked untidy, with dark hair pulled back in a “man-bun” and just wisps where a young man like him should have a beard.

“This is the building owner I was telling you about, Billy,” his mother said, clearly annoyed by him.

“Oh yea,” said the youth, at last looking up in my direction. I could see those eyes. There they were. There she was. Because any image of a man before me disappeared in that instance. There was the girl in pink, but all grown up, and incongruously dressed as a young man.

And there seemed to me that the meeting of our gazes affected Billy too. It was almost as if it were a fairy tale, with only the violins missing. There was an instant bond if you like. We were just not sure what it was. At least not then.

“Billie?” I said. Of course, it was Billie. It was stupid to even ask. It was just that … “I saw that photo of you today. The one in the pink dress.” I just blurted it out, as if compelled to remind him of who he was, or should be.

Billie should have turned red with embarrassment. But that is not what happened. The words spoken were: “That was a long time ago. I don’t do that anymore.”

“If I bought something pink, would you wear it? Would you let me take you to dinner in it?”

“Just a minute,” said Hannah, clearly aware that she was interrupting something tense and almost other-worldly. “Are you talking about putting Billy back into dresses?”

“Yes,” said Billie, ignoring mother and answering me. “Yes, I would.”

“What size are you?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Billie. “What size am I Mom?”

“An 8, I guess,” said Hannah, still appearing confused, but understanding that she was largely irrelevant.

“Ok,” I said. “I will send it here by midday and pick you up from here at say 6:30 tomorrow evening?”

“Ok,” said Billie.

On the way out I said to Hannah: “There is a month’s rent holiday if you help her to get ready.”

She nodded, but her mouth was open. It had been a brief exchange between her child and her landlord, and it had left her confused. That seemed understandable to me. I was a little confused myself.

If it was unnatural to view an image, apparently of a very young girl, and have lustful thoughts, what about having those same thoughts when confronted by a young man? I comforted myself in the knowledge that what attracted me in the child was the woman she could be, and now it seemed as if that same attraction had carried through to the person I saw on the couch. What kind of woman could Billie be?.

I spent the following morning looking in shops close to my office. I confess that I know what I like on a woman but I could not decide between the three outfits I liked, so I bought all three, and three sets of underwear to match, and two pairs of shoes, and I send them all to Hannah’s apartment.

It added to the suspense. I had no idea what she would wear. My only hope was that the woman would emerge, so that I did not have to face the embarrassment of escorting a drag to a meal at the restaurant that I had booked. Still, I had dined with others there before, women I was interested in and men I did business with. Something in between could be borne with head held high.

Hannah greeted me at the door. She was smiling.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for bringing back the light in those eyes.”

I shook my head in confusion. Then I saw the light that she was talking about.

She was wearing the tight black dress, high at the neck with long sleeves, but mid-thigh in length revealing shapely shaved legs. Her hair was down over her shoulders in soft waves, and her make-up was crafted perfectly. Bright red lipstick was matched by a manicure with nail extensions.

And there was that smile too. Not quite the one in the photograph, but still with a trace of innocence, enhance by her shaped body being covered, where her legs needed no such assistance.

I became aware that my eyes were devouring that body like a hungry wolf, right there in front of her mother.

“I can’t say when we’ll be home,” I said.

“That’s alright,” she said. “Billie is old enough to look after him … herself.”

The correction made me look at her. She was happy, but I was happier. I said: “Make that two months rent holiday. She’s gorgeous.”

“Do you really think so?” said Billy, in the perfect high and husky voice.

I offered her my arm and we left.

We only ate the appetizer. It was long enough for both me and Billy to understand what had to follow, and why it could not be delayed beyond that single course.

“I have spent all this time searching for something when it was there inside me all the time,” she said. “I denied it, but you saw it in me. I know that my mother hides the photo, but when she is not looking I sometimes get it out, just to remind me of happy times.”

“Give me the smile in that photo,” I instructed her. She did. My heart leapt.

I took her home. I needed to be inside her, and she needed that too. It was to seal the deal – to confirm that there was no boy; no man. There had always been a girl, and now she was a woman. It was just the way I imagined it would be, as she looked up at me after the initial sweet agony: The smile in the photo. My girl Billie.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2021

Author's Note:
People may know that I do a few of these little things over on Fictionmania - I take a TG captioned image (there are millions out there) and I extend or twist it in a way that I hope is different and imaginative. I don't generally post them on BCTS, but for this one I am making an exception...