In Your Viewfinder

> My boyfriend, a narcotics officer, was holding another woman at a drug dealers' hideout.

> When the flash went off, the look he gave me was like a poison-coated blade.

> "Where did this reporter come from? Drag her out and feed her to the dogs," he ordered, blowing smoke rings.

> Later, the photo that won me the Pulitzer showed his bloodied profile as he lunged at the drug lord.

> On the night of the award ceremony, someone sent me his bloodstained badge number and a letter he had written:

> "I'm sorry. The moment you pressed the shutter, I chose to turn my back on the light."