“Don’t get me wrong, your photographs are nice, but I didn’t feel anything.”
I glance down at my hands. They’re red from gripping the mug. She has balls, I’ll give her that.
“Are you mad?” she asks.
A week ago, I might’ve written off her critique, but when I untied that leather bow and read Halston’s words, something in me jarred loose. I was never angry with Sadie. It was the situation, not her, not me. But yes. I am mad. Because Halston’s right. I’ve been looking through the lens, aiming, and hitting a button. Treating the camera like a tool. Forcing it, because I can’t not take pictures after I quit my job to do this. I’ve felt so goddamn numb the last year, though. It’s not even that I want to be. It’s just how I am now.
“It comes with the territory,” Halston says. “If you want to be an artist, you have to be able to take criticism.”
“Really?” I look up. “Is that why you hide your work? So you don’t have to hear what people think of it?”
“I don’t write for anyone but myself.”
I should want to crush her like she just did to me. I put everything into this. I gave up a six-figure salary on Wall Street. I disappointed my ex-wife and her overbearing family. I took stability away from my child. For what? To take uninspired junk photos?
I can’t do it, though. It’d be a lie to say her work is anything but perfect to me. “You should,” I say. “It’s a shame to hide it.”
“I can see you’re good at what you do,” she says quickly, scratching the inside of her elbow. “God. I’m such a jerk. I should’ve started with that.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“No, I’m serious. You have an eye for this. Maybe it’s the models.” She fidgets and glances at the journal every few seconds. “Where do you find them?”
“Wherever. Craigslist, art school, the street—”
“Would you photograph me?” she asks.
She’s just spoken right to my dick. There might not be any quicker way to get me going. Her question inspires all sorts of reactions in me, like how good it feels to look through a lens at someone you want to fuck and know you’re capturing that moment permanently. I’d probably do anything to her she’d allow, but photograph her? I’d give my left arm to have her at my disposal for a few hours—and under my direction.
I don’t need any more invitation. I understand what my work is missing. Her. Someone to move me enough to do more than aim. I pick up my camera bag from the coffee table.
“Oh, no,” she says. “I wasn’t saying . . . I just meant hypothetically.”
“No you didn’t.” I glance up at her. It occurs to me that maybe that’s why she’s here. Maybe this, coming to a stranger’s apartment and having her photo taken, is the red bra. The tattoo. The tell in whatever game she’s playing. “You’ll be a beautiful model,” I reassure her.
“I don’t think . . .” She stares while I unpack the bag, like the camera’s a surgical instrument I’m about to flay her with. “Why?”
“Why not?” I ask.
“This isn’t me.” She uncrosses her legs, smoothing her hands over her knees. “I’m no model, obviously.”
I can tell by the redness creeping up from her collar that she’s nervous. Good. That will come across nicely in the photo, and maybe raw is what I need. “You’d be doing me a favor.” For me, this’ll be almost as good as sex, getting to look at her as long as I like, position her how I want. Except afterward, I can release her back to her boyfriend without feeling like I’ve lost so much. “Ever since I read your journal, I’ve got all this pent-up energy.”
Now, she’s red all the way to her forehead. She’s embarrassed by this, or, maybe she’s turned on. I hope it’s a little bit of both.
“Okay,” she says. “But . . .”
“But?”
“Not my face.”
I frown. Without that, she could be anyone, and that’s not the point of this. She’s the reason I want to take the picture at all. I lower the camera into my lap. “It’s all in the eyes, Halston.”
She shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want it in the shot. It’s better for you anyway. You’re selling a fantasy. Men who want one. Women who want to be one. Without my face, the imagination can play.”
