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I take off the bathrobe and look at myself in the mirror. I take a picture. It comes out strange. I feel it’s sexy but also imperfect, but also perfect; wrong, but also totally right. I click a few more. The more my gallery fills up, the more I love the pictures.
My phone beeps. It’s Vicky.
R you sending?
Yes.
Face flushed, my heart pounding against my chest, I send him one picture. The few seconds of waiting feel like hours.
Nyc. Send me another one.
Are you sure?
Pls.
I feel risqué. This time I pull a strap down. I really like the picture.
