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The photobooth was wedged between a claw machine with one bear plush and a vending machine that only took cash. The mall was thinning out for the evening, fluorescent lights humming overhead and what not. Cindy slowed down when she saw it. Monty kept walking a few steps before realizing she wasn’t beside her anymore.
“Oh,” Monty said, doubling back. “You want to?”
Cindy had her hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie, chin half-hidden in the fabric. “Maybe,” she said, like the idea had only just occurred to her and wasn’t something she’d been thinking about since they passed it on the way in.
Monty studied the booth’s peeling sticker that promised four poses, instant prints, and “memories forever.” “We have exact change?” Cindy pulled a small coin pouch from her pocket and held it up.
Inside the booth, the air felt warmer. The curtain dragged shut with a soft hiss, and the outside world dissolved into muffled footsteps and distant music. They squeezed onto the narrow bench, thighs pressed together. The screen in front of them flickered to life, displaying their slightly startled reflections.
Cindy laughed first. “Why do I look like that?”
“You look fine,” Monty said, leaning in closer to inspect. “You look like you.”
The timer began its countdown of ten seconds. Cindy straightened instinctively, pushing her hair behind her ears. Monty nudged her shoulder. “Relax. It’s just us.”
Five seconds.
Cindy turned toward Monty instead of the camera, caught between fixing her collar and deciding where to put her hands.
Flash.
The second countdown started immediately. Cindy grabbed Monty’s hand this time, lacing their fingers together like she’d meant to all along. Monty’s mouth twitched into something softer than a grin. They both faced forward.
Flash.
“Okay,” Monty murmured, “third one. We need a plan.”
They both sat up straight, expressions composed, posing with certainty. Cindy’s hand remained threaded with Monty’s, thumb moving in a slow, absent rhythm.
Flash.
By the fourth, the pressure of getting it right had dissapeared entirely. Cindy leaned her head against Monty’s shoulder. Monty tilted slightly to accommodate her without thinking about it. Neither of them looked directly at the lens. The flash fired anyway.
When the machine whirred to life, spitting out the strip in small mechanical sighs, Cindy felt a flicker of nerves she hadn’t expected. Monty tore the strip free carefully, as though it might bruise.
They examined the photos together.
The first panel was chaotic – Cindy mid-turn, Monty halfway through saying something. The second had their hands front and center, fingers tangled, both of them trying not to smile too much and failing. The third was composed and almost formal, but there was something in their eyes that gave them away. The fourth was calmer than the others, Cindy folded into Monty’s side, Monty looking down at her with an expression that hadn’t been rehearsed.
Cindy touched the glossy surface with her thumb. “I like the last one.”
“Me too,” Monty said.
They stepped out of the booth into the bright hallway again, the noise returning all at once. Cindy slipped the photo strip into the back of her phone case, smoothing it flat like it belonged there. Monty noticed the action but didn’t comment on it.
As they walked toward the exit, their hands found each other again, as if the booth had simply documented something on to their lives.