When I first started hanging around with these beautiful Arnette polaroids, I couldn't get enough of them. We'd hang out all day, and at night I'd polish them carefully and put them lovingly in their case. I took care of my personal hygiene, since I didn't want oil getting on the lenses. We danced, sometimes, just the two of us: no music, no light, just dancing. I never missed a birthday. Over time, we started seeing less of each other. I got a new job and didn't have so much free time. I worked hard and felt like I was doing the right thing by us - we needed the money to keep the comfortable, easy-going lifestyle we wanted. But, in working for the lifestyle, I sacrificed the ability to live that lifestyle. Sometimes we were together, but it was always fleeting: on the way somewhere else. I never had time to clean them anymore. They stopped living in their case. One morning, not so long ago, I woke up and put them on. The lenses had seen too much salt water, and the polarising transfer was coming off in a terrible pock marked pattern. Then, I knew: my neglect, my complacency, had killed what we had. And things would never be the same again.
