I sent Nina both portrait photographs after leaving the archive that evening. Her typing indicator appeared, vanished, then returned without producing an answer for nearly three minutes. I called only after she asked through a single question mark quietly.
Nina answered from her bedroom wearing an old university shirt plus no visible makeup. The portrait filled her laptop screen behind the video window around me. She looked from my drawn face toward the reflection in the lower corner.
"You were looking at me," she said, turning the laptop enough for the camera to show the direction.
"I was," I replied, feeling exposed by charcoal more than our direct conversation that morning.
"Like that," Nina said, enlarging the eyes before looking back toward me.
