Photographs of Graves

He was twenty-five. Only fucking twenty-five. And he was already a fucking war photojournalist. Theodore fucking Graves. Not to mention he was also sexy as hell. He wasn't dressed nicely at all, just standing there in these worn-out blue jeans and shoes, a Beatles t-shirt, and this dark brown corduroy jacket with a ton of pockets. He was tall, really tall, maybe 6'3” or so, with dark curly hair that fell down around pale blue eyes. Looking at him made me think of my husky back home: Besides his eyes, had this wolfish smile and he had stubble from days of not shaving. And he made it look good.

Maybe it was just a sign of my sexual frustration. I'd broken up with my last boyfriend about five months ago and he had been semi long distance to begin with. I quickly did the math and realized I hadn't gotten laid in about eight months. It wasn't because I wasn't pretty – I was small, willowy, relatively athletic, elfin featured, green eyed, with really long copper hair that I typically keep in a long fishtail, and from past experience fully aware I was someone's type – I just hadn't had the time or incentive to really find someone new yet.

It had to be the sexual frustration.

And aside from being physically attractive, what he had to say was riveting. I used his words to divert from the motions his mouth made while he talked.

He's probably gay, anyways, I thought to myself, reflecting on past experience with a wry smile. This thought helped me focus.

He told us about his recent experience in darfur taking photos of the genocide. On the projector he flashed picture after picture of soldiers shooting down screaming women, children, and fathers, mangled corpses, and mutilation of very young African faces. Regarding them something else boiled up in me, overtaking my frustration, and making me dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands: Rage. I saw red for a few moments while a girl behind me began sniffling, stifling silent sobs.

A mother threw her body over her small child, his stomach extended from starvation, and was torn through by bullets of an armed soldier; A man dragging a screaming teenage girl away by her hair, a gun in his free hand; A young boy getting kicked and beaten by a group of armed soldiers, his blood spreading in a halo around his limp body. Solumnly Theodore Graves told us about each picture, explained the situation and how he had managed to take the photograph. He lifted his arm and told us how a rifle had shot him about six months back, shattering the bone. Because of this accident he had only spent a year and a half out in the field. He confided that he was itching to go back.

No one spoke until he turned off the projector. He sat on our professor's desk and began to tell us about how he became a war photojournalist: How he did his undergrad at the University of Chicago at the other end of the state and took an internship in Amsterdam in his third year. His mentor and host, a man by the name of Charles Morrow, recruited him to their journal on international affairs while he was there and, pleased by his initial work, offered him a job if he decided to come back after he graduated. From there it was just a matter of putting his mind to what he wanted to do and building those connections.

“I majored in Multimedia Journalism, like you lot,” he explained, “And minored in photography and linguistics. I still need an interpreter in a lot of places, but I have a good base in most of Europe and I was in the process of learning Afrikaans before my setback.” He motioned at his arm. “So. Any questions?”

Somewhere in the process of all this I had pulled out my mac and had been taking notes like a fiend. I stopped typing and looked up at Graves – we had a smallish class, thirty or so students, and I had sat near the front – and found him looking right at me. I froze. He looked away.

I was imagining things. It had to be the sexual frustration.

But something pulled at my chest, that same fire that had been so inflamed at the sight of those pictures. Mind you, I wasn't always the most reverent or calm person; Sometimes I could be hot headed and kind of an idiot. This was one of those times. I raised my hand.

“Miss Murphy,” my professor permitted.

“If you got close enough to those soldiers to take those pictures, then why were you taking pictures instead of blowing their fucking heads off?”

I was trying to reel the worlds back in even as they were tumbling out of my mouth. They hung there in the open air, heavy and shocking. The class sat stunned.

Ari, you're a dipshit, I told myself.

“Excellent question,” Graves broke the silence, smiling at me wolfishly. “I didn't blow their fucking heads off because the people that take me into these countries are smart enough not to give me a fucking gun. Sometimes my personal feelings can get in the way of my intent for diplomacy. I think you understand that concept quite well, Miss Murphy.”

I blinked and nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” I murmured and pretended to go back to my notes.

Only a couple more questions were asked before the class ended, none being as dumb as mine. I kept kicking myself mentally even as I collected my things and slid them into my satchel.

“.... And I apologize for Miss Murphy's behavior, she really is a model student, she wants to go into war journalism you know, she just gets a little upset I guess, I've never seen...” I caught the words of my professor's apology as I headed for the door. My stomach sank.

“Not a problem. I like her,” Graves beamed, “Good to know we'll be having some passionate people coming into the field. War journalist, you say?” He turned, looking straight at me, and beckoned. “Hey, Miss Murphy, a word?”

I froze.

“Oh yeah, sure.” I ordered my feet to start moving again. I hoped I looked confident as I joined the little circle by my professor's desk. “How can I help you, Mr. Graves? Your presentation was incredibly moving-”

“Oh, don't start bullshitting me now, Murphy, I was just beginning to like you,” Graves cut me short. I blinked.

“Well, what the hell do you want then?” I asked a tad angrily. What did he want, if he didn't want an apology?

“That's more like it.” That scruffy wolfish smile again. He had this charm about him that threatened to disintegrate my pants where I stood. It made it hard to talk to him.

“I just wanted to ask you about your plans for studying journalism,” he continued. “Any schooling after here? What classes does Xavier offer? Any plans for an internship?”

“I...” I stammered, caught off guard. My professor caught his shoulder though, saving me from his onslaught.

“Mr. Graves, actually the english faculty would like to meet with you in ten minutes, can Miss Murphy talk to you another time?” my professor asked with a slight smile. Graves quickly looked down at a plain watch adorning his wrist, letting out a low whistle.

“Damn, you guys keep me on a tight regiment. Of course, I'm on my way.” Graves looked at me, “Hey, I'm still interested in your curriculum, though. Coffee at eight at that little place you guys have in your student center? I might be late, be warned.”

“Oh, yeah, honor,” I nodded, shrugging, readjusting my shoulder bag. Blink. Okay. Cool. Um.

“Honor's all mine,” Graves smiled, “I love talking to students. Sometimes I felt like I never really got to finish college.”

In moments he had been whisked away to some meeting with the english department by my professor and I was left standing in the empty lecture hall.

What?