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“Can you take a picture of me?” Wyatt calls back.

I roll my eyes. I’m a cinematographer, but I guess I take decent pictures. At least I can play with angles.

“Thirst trap or just cool?” I ask.

“Please just cool?” Wyatt pleads.

I exchange a glance with Romy. She’s smirking. I think I catch her drift, but I can only guess what she’s implying.

“I think this was meant for monkeys, so can you hook your feet into the top of the cage closest to the concrete enclosure?” I ask. “Then reach the upper half of your body into the inner enclosure.”

Wyatt follows my every request, and the picture makes his ass look incredible. Romy’s barely not on the floor laughing in the background. He better post this. The composition is incredible, and more straight guys need to show off their butts.

“How’re things going with Valeria?” Wyatt asks once the photo is done (he doesn’t ask to see it, so I expect a shocked reply later tonight) and we’re off to the next cage.

I can’t help but smile. “Pretty good. We’ve been texting for several days now.”

Wyatt breaks out a grin. “Jesus, that’s amazing! What do you guys talk about?”

I pull my phone/flashlight to my face. “I could show you some of the messages—”

Romy grabs my arm. “C’mon, you gotta see the view in here!”

The next cage was home to a much larger animal than the first one. The door opens with a little push into another concrete structure sheltered from the heat. Farther into the space, a staircase descends deep into the dirt. The only light down there is whatever manages to filter through the cage bars. Everything is rough, graffiti-covered stone. Rough enough that if you fell or rubbed against it wrong, you’d come out with a bloody elbow orknee.

I hesitate at the top of the stairs. The way down is too dark for my phone’s flashlight to illuminate.

“Do you need me to hold your hand, champ?” Romy asks.

I shoot her the finger and climb down the stairs. And from down here, looking up into the strips of moonlight highlighting the uneven, color-washed stairs, the spot is gorgeous.

“Rom, this is amazing,” I say.

“Got you,” she says.

I take a photo with Romy’s shadow just within frame. Do a full pan up. Try different focuses. At some point I make Romy jump deeper into the frame. I’ve always loved her silhouette, the way the shape of her hair gives uneven lines to an otherwise fluid set of curves. It almost makes me miss my outrageously stressful production classes. At least, I ache a little for the intimacy the two of us gained making movies together under ridiculous deadlines, cursing my pretentious classmates and professors at three a.m. while trying to get our lines right. She was always better at it than me. There’s a softness to the nostalgia, though, knowing that we share that same closeness in different settings now: around new work hours, responsibilities, and views on life. Somehow, though, I think any art we make, even the little backdrops I made for Romy’s play, is better just because we have more years of knowing each other behind us. Still, I’d love to see that intimacy in action, to make more art together.

By the time we’re outside again, Wyatt’s hanging off a cage door, completely oblivious to the rust he might be getting embedded into his skin.

“Are you feeling good about Valeria?” Wyatt asks.

I glance at Romy. Rehashing the entire conversation with him seems fruitless. “We’re just trying to figure out if she’s gay.”

Wyatt wrinkles his brow. “Don’t you two know?”

“She hasn’t come out to us yet,” Romy says, deadpan.

I hand him my phone. “We’ve just got the texts as evidence.”

Wyatt scans the texts.

“Seriously, what the hell is up with Steven?” I ask.

Wyatt hands me the phone. “I just assume anyone who uses the gay pride flag casually is gay.”

Romy shrugs. “There’s your straight opinion.”

“And really, Luna, it’s fine,” Wyatt says. “I’m way more into this gay mystery.”