This is a picture I did not take

of Werner Herzog and a young, blonde, sunglassed woman emerging from the backseat of a chauffered car at a film premiere, the sunglassed woman confidently stepping onto the street as if acutely aware of the attention her youth, blondeness, and sunglasses might demand; nor is it of Herzog's videographer, hanging out of the front seat window, squinting at his camera's tiny screen and gritting his teeth as if the window was being slowly rolled-up, right into his gut; nor is this a picture of how Herzog exited and slowly turned to face the car and made sure he closed his door carefully, without a slam, and that the front door, which his videographer had left flung wide, was closed too; and with his back to me and the crowd and the night's events, his hands on the closed car doors, I felt the hinge of the evening pass beneath -- Herzog standing in his hiking sneakers, me with my thumb looped around my camera's strap not photographing the night as it turned from before into after, when Herzog turned to us and walked toward and then walked inside the theater, leaving handshakes and unshaken hands and flashbulbs and small cine-gasps behind, while one late-arriving photographer, upon learning he'd missed the whole thing, looked at the ground and quietly shook his fists.