Somewhere in New York City, a man I’ve never met is carrying around a vintage-style photobooth strip with my face on it. He has four tiny exposures of me smiling and pouting in various awkward poses, except he doesn’t know my full name, where I’m from, or if he will ever meet me.
Meanwhile, I’m holding onto a photo strip of a smiley stranger — he’s flashing a peace sign in one frame, closing his eyes in the next. He wears an England cap, which is a bizarre coincidence since that’s where I’m from.
