The Fourth Photo

I needed pictures to renew my ID, so I used the photo booth at the station, the usual one. Three flashes, same as always. I waited for the hum and the strip dropped into the tray, still damp.

There were four photos.

In the first three it's me: serious, more serious, hair flattened. In the fourth it's also me, but from behind. You can see me pushing the curtain aside, stepping out of the booth, wearing a dark coat that isn't mine. In the corner, blurred, the platform clock shows a time that hasn't arrived yet.

I've sat back down on the stool. Cold air seeps in through the coin slot. Outside, someone clears their throat, waits their turn, raps twice on the metal with their knuckles. I stare at the closed curtain and do the maths: as long as I don't step out, the fourth photo can't be taken.

On the back of the stool, carefully folded, there's a dark coat. It's starting to get properly cold.