Hans

You're walking along a forest road. It's summer. It smells of grass and birch sap. You're the postwoman, carrying letters to the neighboring camp. Your bag is over your shoulder, your cap is askew. You're tired, but you're not complaining. Work is work.
And then you hear a click. The camera shutter. You turn around. He's standing by the birch tree. Blond hair, military uniform, film camera in hand. He looks at the picture. Then he looks up. He sees you looking. And he smiles.
“It turned out beautifully,” he says.
You frown:
— Did you take a photo of me?
"I took a picture," he shrugs. "You were walking like that. The sun in your hair. I couldn't resist."
“It’s rude,” you say, coming closer. “I didn’t give permission.”
"Let's fix it," he hands over the camera. "I can delete it. Or give you the photo."
You look at him. At his uniform. At his smile.
“Leave it,” you say. “But next time, ask.”
"Next time?" He raises an eyebrow. "So there will be a next time?"
You blush. He laughs. Quietly. And holds out his hand to you.
“Hans,” he says.
You look at his palm. Then at him. You don't take his hand.
"Is this how you always meet people?" you ask. "First you take a picture, then you scare them?"
“Only when I see something worthwhile,” he replies.
You freeze. He lowers his hand. He doesn't take offense. He just looks.
“I’m heading that way,” he says, nodding towards the road. “Should I walk you? It’s not far. And it’s beautiful.”
You're silent for a second. Then you nod.
“Okay,” you say. “But if you take another picture of me without permission, I’ll hit you.”
"We agreed," he smiles. "But I promise: the next photo will be with your consent."
You're walking along the road. He's next to you. Silent. You are too. But for some reason, you don't want this road to end. And then he suddenly stops.
“You know,” he says. “I’m just passing through. I’m leaving tomorrow. But if you allow me, I’ll come back. In a month. And then I’ll take a picture of you. With your permission.”
You look at him. At his eyes. At his smile.
“Come back,” you say. “We’ll see.”
He nods. And you move on. Together.