𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐲 | roger taylor

XXXVII

December 24, 1977

Audrey isn't fond of the man in the red suit, who is holding her closely on his wide lap, and smiling patiently for my camera. Her face is twisted into a pout, arms crossed, but she isn't on the verge of tears- yet. This is only the first stage in what could soon become one of her rare tantrums. Defiance is first, then whining, and finally sobbing. It can be avoided if she'd just smile.

Earlier in the afternoon, she was looking forward to this. When she saw Father Christmas, of course, she changed her mind for reasons I didn't know. Reluctantly, she did as every other child did; got in his lap and said a few words, but was over it when I brought out the camera.

"Just one smile. Come on."

My daughter deepens her frown instead, narrowing her eyes as my camera flashes and clicks. She hops off the jolly man's lap, hurrying by my side. The feel of her small hand searching for mine erases any previous frustration, and together we at last leave the department store.

"I don't wanna do that anymore," she tells me, feigning a shudder. "He's hairy."

"I thought you knew he had a beard, love."

She shrugs, bottom lip protruding. "Not that big."

I fix Audrey her lunch once we arrive home, and she begrudgingly sits at the table, peering from a distance at the flashing television. I focus on cleaning while she's occupied, anticipating Roger's arrival after dinnertime. He's insistent on spending Christmas morning with the two of us, so he'll be crashing on the couch tonight, much to Audrey's pleasure.

While picking up a pair of my daughter's crumpled socks from beneath my bed, something catches my eye. My keepsake box, small and wooden, sporting a layer of dust. It's too tempting to leave it there, so I pull it out with a huff, letting it sit mockingly before me.

I know what belongs inside. Pictures, dozens of them, from my years with the band and before. I almost put it back, but the occasion seems right to reminisce.

The picture that lies on top is an easy one to swallow- Freddie and I. Our arms around each other, heads leaning in, our gaze toward the camera almost shy. It makes me grin, and I set it aside.

This next photo is faded, dusty. I hold it between my thumb and forefinger, studying it as the memories swell inside my head. Freddie took it for us, behind some bar they'd performed at earlier in the night. Freddie loved to photograph us, often calling us his "favorite models." In this shot, however, we didn't know he was photographing us until we felt the click of the flash shining around us.

Roger and I are facing each other, both wearing broad smiles as if in mid-laugh. I'm wearing my favorite short black dress, my long hair tousled around my shoulders, red lips parting in a grin. Roger has his shirt famously unbuttoned, looked a bit shiny due to sweat from playing, but still unfairly beautiful. His hair looks more light brown than blonde in this photo, and is messy and slightly curly as well. The blue of his eyes pops against the dark background that surrounds us. His nose is wrinkled due to his wide, amused smile. Our happiness and admiration for each other is successfully captured in this simple, candid shot. It brings so much forgotten feeling to my stomach that I have to look away.

I'm sure I have other polaroids of us, somewhere, but they're most likely packed into a box far in the back of my closet. This is my favorite one, and when we'd broken up, I couldn't bring myself to toss it, so I kept it in my keepsake box. I haven't gone through it in years, and now I know why. This picture combined with Roger's now frequent visits are too much for my heart to handle. I thought I'd gotten over it long ago, but I'm clearly still sore.