Time Capsule Camera (fiction/short story)

Greg loved the smell of photo developing chemicals. Even the sharp vinegar smell of the stop-bath gave him nostalgic shivers as he hovered over the plastic pan in his dark room. Dark room really was a generous term for it, since in reality it was just a converted basement closet, but it was one of the only places in the house that remained his and his alone. Veronica hated the smell he loved so much, and her ever growing suit collection claimed pretty much every other unused corner in the place, so the basement was where he set up his little shop.

An avid analogue photographer, Greg had lately been experimenting with vintage, sometimes slightly busted cameras. Veronica called it “Lame-O-graphy,” mocking him with the term that was so trendy a couple years ago, then bought a DSLR and told him to grow up. Whatever. Greg was excited to see what kind of photos his new acquisition would produce. He wasn’t even sure what model the thing was, but he’d found it lying on the ground by a pawn shop dumpster and couldn’t resist.

As pictures started to form, Greg’s brow furrowed. The images appearing were so foreign that if he hadn’t put the film in the camera and taken it out himself he wouldn’t have believed them. There was a mild distortion in the images, but when had he taken a picture of a freakin’ birdbath? Who the hell even HAS birdbaths anymore?

Racking his brain, he started compiling a list of the photos he’d taken. It had been a couple of weeks ago, but not that long. Let’s see… There were a couple shots of the flowers in the yard, a few of the flowers in the neighbor’s yard. Then he’d gone for his usual Sunday walk around the nearby park and took some photos of kids playing, then several more when he got home. He’d been entranced by the way the fading light cast shadows all over the kitchen, but that was pretty much the end of the roll. Weird.

One by one the photos went in the bath and one by one they developed, showing confusing but somehow familiar images.

After the birdbath came pictures of grubby grass, dirt, some rocks, then a little foot-tall shrub. Squinting closely Greg recognized a… A rhododendron? Those things take OVER. He’d know; he’d planted several about that size a while back and then fought them for years until he finally ripped them all out in a rage. Next came a scene he recognized but his brain tripped over the results. Greg rubbed his fists hard into his eyes and looked again; the scene was still there. His hands shook far more than necessary to remove the fixer as he held up the photo. It was the park alright, but instead of the plastic play structure covered in laughing children it was the open grassy clearing that used to be there, years and years ago. Even more confusingly he could see Veronica clearly, but she was so young! Her hair was still long and its natural dark blonde color, beautifully framing her face as she glanced back at him with laughter and love in her eyes, their golden retriever leaping up alongside her. The golden retriever that had died of old age five years ago.

Greg reeled. He remembered that afternoon. It had to be what, ten years ago? Back when Veronica laughed more, talked to him more, went with him on his Sunday walks. Back when he was still allowed to call her “Ronnie,” and the worst they’d argue over was who had to pick up Shadow’s poop in the morning and who had to do the dishes. Still shaking, Greg began rushing to develop the remaining photos. There were more of Veronica playing with Shadow in the park. God she was so beautiful.  He stared at her smile as the photos from his kitchen began their slow travels through the developer. Greg held his breath, trying to avert his eyes as the photos began their finishing bath, but pictures emerged.

The same sun and shadows played across the cabinets, but the appliances were different. The stainless steel fridge was gone, the microwave was smaller and cheaper. The espresso machine was a plastic Mr. Coffee and right in the middle of everything was Veronica. She leaned back on the counter blowing steam off her old Looney Tunes mug, a smile playing at the corners of her lips and across her eyes. He lingered over this photo, smiling as he remembered how upset she’d been when he’d accidentally broken that mug in the sink.

Glancing over at the next photo in the bath, Greg inhaled sharply. There he was. Grubby Nirvana t-shirt, the silver hair at his temples gone, caught in the act of pausing while filling his own mug from the Mr. Coffee to lean over and plant a kiss on his beautiful wife’s shoulder. When the next photo emerged he saw only his own back, as his younger self had just enveloped his wife in an embrace and a deep, deep kiss.

Greg felt a resonating pang of nostalgia; had they really been so happy and young and in love once? Had kisses ever been anything other than the perfunctory peck on the way out the door? Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as his heart swelled with these fond, beautiful memories. He couldn’t wait to show Veronica. Maybe this would be the spark they’d been missing for years.

The last photo sat in the developer, but he barely glanced at it as he studied all the hanging pictures that showcased how beautiful his marriage had once been. When he finally brought his attention back to the bath, he was a bit confused. The images coming through weren’t of their old kitchen; this was their old bedroom. Then he remembered. When he’d grabbed the camera off the dresser to develop the film that afternoon there’d been one photo left, so he’d snapped a quick one in their bedroom on his way downstairs, just to finish the roll. Greg leaned forward in anticipation. Veronica lay naked on the bed, resplendent with her familiar post-sex glow and a cigarette in her hand, covers bunched up around her young, shapely long legs. Greg stared, growing lust tickling at his senses, when a stunning realization drove an ice pick straight into the base of his stomach.

There was a figure lying in the bed next to her, naked and smiling while propped up on an elbow, and it was not him.