I recently walked passed a patch of grass in Prospect Park where Teresa and I once sat after riding a pedal boat. I have some photos of her from that day. I think of them as the “betrayer photos,” because, as I subsequently learned, she was cheating on me then. Possibly this designation fits every photo I ever took of her, but these particular photos are the only ones I’m certain about. Whenever I look at them, I turn them around in my mind and see myself through her eyes. She thinks: He doesn’t know.
And it’s true: he doesn’t.