Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
I’ve known Julio since college. We bonded over bad cafeteria food and worse poetry. He was always a bit intense. He felt things deeply, maybe too deeply. So, when he called me, his voice laced with a melange of excitement and shame, I should have been less surprised. “Cory,” he started, the word almost a gasp, “I need to tell you something. Something kinda fucked up.” I braced myself. With Julio, it could be anything from accidentally setting his apartment on fire while trying to flambé bananas to getting into a philosophical argument with an inanimate object.
This was different, though. I could hear it in his voice, that ragged edge of genuine distress. He told me about the photos. An old shoebox he’d found while helping his mother sort through her attic. Candid shots from her twenties, a lifetime ago. She was beautiful, vibrant, radiating a joy that Julio confessed he’d never really seen in her. And, yes, she was with other people. Arms around her waist, laughter on their faces, in various states of undress and even sexual positions, all moments of intimacy frozen in time.
