I need to go back to bed.

Someone is at my table. One of the hotel staff, arms folded. She’s dressed in a navy-blue skirt and a wrinkle-free white blouse, hair tied up in a bun. I look at her blankly.

What are you doing here? she says in English. American-tinted English, like most Taiwanese. Her face crumples. And what is that smell?

I look down at my trousers, then my food. Breakfast, I say.

She says, And how is it?

Not great, I say. You should tell management.

Her eyes become slits. You really don’t remember me, do you?

I push my eggs around. Refresh my memory?

A few weeks ago. We met at that bar with the floating lanterns, did karaoke, I invited you back to my place. We had sex.

We did? Was I good?

No.

Then what happened?

You stole from me, she says.

Okay. That took a weird turn. The way I see it, I now have two options.

One: tell this girl she’s got the wrong guy, gag my breakfast down and go sightseeing.

Or two: pretend I am this thief she thinks I am, tell her of course I remember her. Ethically questionable, but what the hell.

Of course I remember you, I say. I put on my charming smile and nudge her on the arm. What did I take again?

Do you remember my name? You were shouting it enough, she says, dusting off the spot on her arm where I touched her.

I say, I’m pretty bad at names.

She says, Enjoy your meal, sir.

I get to thinking about those Antarctic emperor penguins who live in minus-fifty-degree conditions, and how they would for sure enjoy the chill coming off this girl.

She pivots and walks back to her post at the front desk, each sharp click of her heels stabbing my poor, soft, squidgy brain.

T

WO

I wake up, alone.

My phone says 2:16 pm.

I look around the room properly for the first time. Small TV sat on a built-in desk. Mini-fridge under that. To my left, a tiny hallway and a shower room. To my right, a window with an armchair to the side.

Everything is white.

Maybe more grey, actually. On the walls, generic, oversaturated photographs of Taipei landmarks.

There’s the 101 building in the middle of a sunset.

Over there is an elaborate temple – gold, red and blue.

And over there—

No. This is the most heinous thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

A photo with actual light trails made from car taillights.

Who takes these pictures?

For real, there are horrific things I can kind of understand. Skintight trousers on fat men. Non-alcoholic beer. Old folks who drive fancy sports cars at forty miles an hour on the motorway.

But light trail photographs?

To make up for the massive Fuck You Sean on the wall, I grab my camera out of my bag, walk over to the window and draw the curtains.

Heavy, grey skies. Tall, grey buildings. Not a landscape to take your breath away, just the kind I like. Down there, Taipei simmers under its tight lid of clouds.

Camera to my face, I frame and shoot, then push the film advance with my thumb. The whir and the click of the lever soothes me.

Shooting film, it’s reassuring. You’ve got to know how to expose your picture properly. You have to understand the relationship between the shutter speed and the aperture and the rating of the film. You have to take into account the lighting conditions.

You only have thirty-six shots (even less if you’re shooting medium format), so you have to make every single frame count.

And if you’re a real photographer, you have to learn how to process and print your film with your own hands.

Take away the digital crutches of your average photographer’s phone or camera, and they wouldn’t know what the hell to do.

And that, well, that makes me feel good.

There’s this photograph by Elliott Erwitt, Bratsk Wedding. In it, there’s a young couple waiting to get married, sitting on a row of chairs in a registry office. Next to them, a smooth, handsome young white dude in a suit.

This dude, he’s smiling, looking at something out of frame.

And this couple, they’re staring at this dude like he just slept with the bride.

Shot with his trusty Leica M3 on Tri-X 400, a frigging documentary masterpiece.

Why is the guy smiling like that? What the hell is happening?