Whenever Hana saw a beautiful view, Dina was already looking through a lens. They had dated for almost a year and were traveling for the first time without other friends. Dina was a photographer; Hana worked in publishing and loved the pictures she sent. Living inside them, however, was not easy. Before an old bridge she waited three times for people to pass, once for clouds to move, and once more to adjust a scarf the wind had put in entirely the wrong place.
Eventually she bought a yellow umbrella and opened it although no rain fell. Dina lowered her camera, confused that her composition had disappeared. Hana said she needed a break from looking beautiful. She did not speak angrily, but Dina nevertheless heard criticism of the only way she knew to observe attentively. They argued outside a souvenir magnet shop, both slightly ashamed to discuss intimacy beside a sign offering three items for the price of two.
In a café Dina admitted constantly taking pictures partly through fear of forgetting. Work had taught her a missed frame never returned. Hana replied that a missed afternoon together could not be repeated either, even if they had a hundred photographs of its beginning. She did not ask Dina to keep her profession outside their life. She wanted to know when they were on vacation and when she was accompanying someone at work who needed her patience as part of the equipment.
They agreed on an afternoon without photographing people and a morning when Dina would go out alone with the camera. The yellow umbrella became a sign that Hana did not want to be in the frame, without requiring a fresh discussion every time. She did not open it to punish Dina. She opened it when she wanted to eat ice cream before it melted or simply stand hunched because her feet hurt. Dina began asking before moving her hand, and sometimes lowered the camera herself without a reminder.
On the final day real rain fell. They stood together under the umbrella, laughing because it was too small for two people unwilling to stand close enough to a wet wall. The camera remained in its bag. At home Dina printed several photographs of empty streets and one of the yellow umbrella leaning against a chair, taken with Hana's permission. Hana placed it on a shelf. When anyone asked where she was in the picture, she said she stood just outside the frame, precisely where she had wanted to be that evening.