A man outside the cafe I’m sitting in stops on the path through the small park outside. He must be feeling himself today because he’s been taking selfies for the past five minutes. Longer.
Holding his phone as far as his limbs allow, and cocking it at an artful angle in his hand. Shot after shot. From behind him I can only faintly see his expression change when the muscles in his jaw flex. Everything flexing.
I think for a moment of recording him, of sharing it with a friend or publishing it online to mock his narcissism. But I think too of the way self portraiture is a form of self love. If your appearance makes you feel good surely there’s no harm in capturing it when not at the expense of others. But the immodesty too. The issue’s unsettled.
He sets his backpack down and gently rests the phone against it on the ground. Touching the phone as little as possible for fear of knocking it over, marring the pristine glass housing. He taps a button on the screen to activate a timer. He steps back then, unsure of the phone’s stability. He kneels, either posing or too nervous with the phone precarious out of his reach.
Crossing his arms now, he strikes a new pose. Suddenly projecting confidence. Dramatic change, the contrast jarring.