The Long Exposure

There are three reasons I am wearing this corset. One, because Arthur likes the way it flattens my ribs and makes my breathing shallow, which he mistakes for devotion. Two, because if I do not look like a porcelain doll in the photograph, I cannot claim I am ready to be one in life. Three, because the glass roof is leaking a little, and the draft from the chimney of Montmartre is cold enough to stiffen my spine if I let it.

I stand on the black velvet footstool, the wood biting into the arch of my foot through the thin silk of my slippers. The studio smells of wet stone, silver nitrate, and the cheap lavender soap Kevin uses to wash his hands. He is a mountain of a man, all broad shoulders and forearms corded with muscle that he hides under a loose linen shirt. He does not look at me like Arthur looks at me, as if I am a ledger entry waiting to be balanced. He looks at me like I am a problem he intends to solve.

His hands are large, the knuckles scarred from years of lifting heavy plates, and he moves with a quiet precision that makes my stomach turn. He adjusts the collar of my dress, his thumb brushing the hollow of my throat. I do not pull away. I hold my breath. The light is dying. The carriage is late. And for the first time in two years, I have nowhere else to be.