Abstract
She stood at the slot and watched for the photos to drop. It said sixty seconds. At one hundred and five they rolled through the mangle, ironed but wet. She plucked up the strip by the edges and blew it from left to right, checking each frame as she blew. Made for the writing counter, rummaging with one hand through her purse for the manicure scissors in the red plastic case. Cut the strip into four poses, curved at the tops and bottoms like nails. Reversed them. Printed in ball-point pen on the back of each: Alice P. Gamboe. The Mortimer Woodworth Service Plaza. May 11, 1973. Put each into a separate envelope, licked them shut. Stamped and addressed them and put them down the chute by the door, under the map that says you are here.
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