At Sigismund’s Column a man and a woman sit on stone steps; she is in a t-shirt and blue-jean shorts, leaning against him, her head in his lap, dazed.  From my distance it is hard to tell their limbs apart.  He bends to kiss her, passionate and prolonged, hand snaking under her shirt, their mouths locked and searching.  Tourists snap pictures of the column, a stroller abandoned at the base; still they perform.  Perched on a stone wall opposite, I am captivated longing for my camera with the zoom lens.  I watch mesmerized wanting to move closer, am disappointed when they get up and walk away.

I want to pose the scene: the Japanese tourists, nonchalant; the lady in the blue-and-white-striped dress; I want to capture the vignette, the passersby detached.  It makes me ache.  I think of the art in Krakow, someone taking a picture, watching me, watching them.