(it's in those moments)</b>
It's like some artsy black and white photograph the last time he sees her. She's standing on the sidewalk, waiting, with posters, torn and tiled, on the wall behind her. They are all the same, boasting that familiar symbol; it looks like an eight on its side. He's thinkng that he should have brought a camera to capture it all: the way the sun barely illuminates her face, the way the wind kisses her hair, and the way the posters behind her mean something.
This moment is infinite. It's possibilities: it's the exchange of words and it's their first date and it's his hand in hers and her hands in his hair and his lips on her neck. Infinity. It's there, in her legs as she walks in his direction, and it's there in his eyes as he watches her move. It's in the space between them, in that infinite span of a few seconds.
-- until she smiles and she's prettier than she ever has in all the time he's spent watching her. She's beautiful, even as she's kissing that someone else who came to meet her, and even as she's walking away with his arm around her waist.
But the moment is gone. There are no possibilites.
He looks up again at the posters tiled on that wall, and he smiles. He's glad he didn't bring his camera. They are just a bunch of fucking advertisements, all in a row, and no one even cares to know what they're marketing. They were never anything more.