“Smile.”

Isidro posed, nothing behind him but clouds, trying hard to smile. He believed it was the first picture the tourist had taken of him.

“You want me to take one of you?”

“No, stay there.” The tourist snapped another picture and said, “Tell me what you’re up to.”

Isidro said, “Please?”

Something was wrong. It was in the tourist’s expression. Not a serious one but not a nice one either. He wasn’t happy, he wasn’t angry, he wasn’t anything. The tourist took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket as he said, “They ask you a lot of questions about me?”

It was as though a disguise was removed and Isidro was seeing him for the first time, seeing the man’s eyes as tiny nail points holding him, telling him he had made a mistake, failed to observe something. For a moment his wife was in his mind, his wife speaking to him with the sound of the washing machine and the television. He was confused and it made him angry.

“Who? Nobody ask me anything.”

“No? They didn’t pay you?”

“Mister, I don’t know what you talking about.” The only thing he knew for sure, the man was no longer his prize.

“Tell me the truth. Say the girl approached you?”

“Yes, she want to meet you.”

“Go on.”

“I said okay. See, I thought you like her, a lot.”

“You did, ‘ey? Why?”

“Man, all the pictures you took of her.” He watched the tourist stare at him, then begin to smile, then shake his head back and forth and heard the tourist say:

“Oh, shit. You looked at the prints you picked up this morning. Didn’t you?”

Isidro nodded. Why not? The tourist didn’t seem angry now. “But I didn’ hurt them, I jus’ look at them.”