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The taxi was outside . Uncle Dennis had his hat in one hand and a wet glass in the other , because he would not leave a dirty glass in Ruth's sink . Ruth had wanted one photo of him all weekend . Every picture she already had showed the same stiff row of cousins at a table . She wanted him as he was when he forgot about the camera . " Put the phone down , " he said . " I look like a man who is late . " " You are late , " Ruth said . " That's why I want it . " He shook his head and held the glass up to the window . He turned it until the afternoon light went through it and onto his fingers . He was looking for a smear , not for a picture . Water ran off the rim and onto his wrist . He reached for a towel and missed it , so he dried his wrist on his sleeve . His face was quiet . It never looked like that when he knew she was watching . Ruth raised the phone anyway . She wanted his eyes , and his eyes were on the glass . If she asked him to look over , the quiet would go , and she would get the smile he saved for cameras . She had seen that smile in every family photo . She did not want another copy of it . The engine was running outside . She pressed the button before she could talk herself out of it . The sound was small . Dennis looked across the kitchen . " You got the glass , " he said . " Not me . " Ruth looked at the screen . The glass was bright along the rim . His wet fingers were around it , the hat was a dark shape in his other hand , and the line between his eyebrows was there . The window light sat on his wrist . The photo had no laugh in it , and no engine . It had that minute , and nothing else . He had already lowered the glass . The bright patch on his hand was gone . A second picture would be a different one . " I got you , " she said .
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