The developer in the tray shimmered with an otherworldly blue light as I stared at the faint outline emerging along the edge of the photographic paper, my fingers hovering over the fixer solution, too hesitant to dip them in. A familiar chuckle sounded from behind me, carrying the scent of mint candy: “You’ve got some nerve trying to develop portrait film on your first go.” When he bent to adjust the focus of the enlarger, the cuff of his white shirt brushed against the back of my hand. I’d casually mentioned wanting to try film photography last week—who knew he’d secretly reserved this old darkroom tucked away at the end of the alley?
He taught me to trim the edges of the photos with scissors: “This gives them a movie poster feel.” We took turns writing dates on the backs of the prints, the rustle of the pen on paper overlapping with the rhythm of our breathing. As the last photo was slipped into the album, he pulled a tin box from his canvas bag—inside were neatly arranged twenty rolls of film in various formats.
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