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Another fiction:
He saw her clear through the range-finder, walking down the road with long strides, her hair flapping high behind her like wings, as he composed the graffiti on the wall with her in the background. He knew she would be blurred, a presence to be felt only, not seen. The blue light before sunrise made the wind cold on his face as he moved on towards the church to take shots of old folks who would soon come. Later, when the sun was high and cast strong rectilinear shadows on the cobblestone paths as he crouched on the ledge trying to compose the old miner who would soon walk down the street, she was behind him at the restaurant, taking the folded chairs and tables out, some fifty of them, and arranged them on the patio. She had turned on a radio blaring rock music and was making a bit of a racket dropping those darned tables down, and as he looked back in annoyance she smiled at him and wiped the sweat off her forehead on her shoulder as she carried the last of the tables down. That afternoon he toured the mine and afterwards lay on the grass under a strand of poplars by the reservoir and read his book. After dinner he brought his laptop to the café; she was still there. He ordered a cup of Turkish coffee, dark and thick with a layer of sediment at the bottom, and started to work on the paper. For a while he kept writing in circles. A couple of boys came, and she joined them with a glass of cocoa, as she smiled and talked. Then the flow returned, and the logic was clearer, words found their places, and he finished the first draft ready to be emailed away the next morning. At nine thirty he folded the laptop and rose. The girl smiled and waved good night from behind the counter.