Looking through Ron's photograph albums, Lyn noticed there were none of him with friends or family; he was always the photographer.

Even in pictures of himself, his outstretched arm was visible, holding the camera just the right distance from his tanned, smiling face. Others involved the use of a mirror, catching himself from various angles, different expressions acted out for the camera.

All through their never-ending-never-going-anywhere relationship, she had begged to visit his apartment, pleaded to have her photograph taken with him, something she could treasure. He said he hated having his picture taken, hated his tiny, bleak apartment. He stayed at her place, he took pictures of her - but she couldn't see them here.

Now he was gone, she realised he had only ever had one true love. Framed shots of Ron filled his vast, luxurious bedroom. Ron smiling, frowning, crying.

All at arm's length.

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