by Starla Cole
Syria slept fitfully, waking when Anthony got up to toss the condom, then again when the early morning light began streaming through his half-open blinds.
She turned to her side, realizing he wasn’t there.
Sounds from the kitchen filtered down the hall. Coffee beans dropping into a grinder, then the buzz of the machine. She pulled the sheets to her chin, not sure if she should wait or go find him. It seemed silly to put her dress back on. The words “Walk of Shame” began to take on new meaning.
Syria rolled over, noticing that she still felt full and swollen down below. She pressed a hand between her legs and this calmed the ache, like when you touched a finger against your skin after plucking eyebrows. Syria had to do this almost daily, something that must have come from the Indian side of her genetics, as her mother’s brows were thin and pale.
Anthony came back into the room and slid across the sheets. “You’re up, sleepyhead. Do you drink coffee?”
She nodded.
He pulled her up against his chest. He’d only put on a pair of boxers, but his skin was still warm. “It’s a lovely day for that shoot, if you’d like to try it. Warm enough to keep you comfortable. Nice light.”
Syria wasn’t as sure now that the torrid night was over and didn’t answer.
Anthony seemed to understand her reticence. “Or maybe another day.” He tugged the sheet away from her. “Let me see if you’re as beautiful as I remember.”
He exposed her breasts to the morning light, cutting across her in slits from the window. “Now that’s a picture.” He ran his hand across the stripes of white, bending with her curves. He rolled to the edge of the bed and rummaged on the floor, returning with a camera. “May I?”
Syria nodded, crossing her arm across her eyes, feeling crazy shy. He shifted around, making the mattress dip, and she heard a few faint clicks. No one ever photographed her, much less bare-breasted. The attention was frightening, but intoxicating, and heat rushed through her body. She felt her nipples tighten. “Now that’s it,” Anthony said, and she heard a few more clicks.
He lay down next to her. “Would you like to see?”
She lifted her arm away from her eyes. Anthony held the back of the camera to her. In the display she could see herself in deep shadow, her face hidden. Cutting across her body were the curving stripes of light, highlighting the curves of her breasts, two taut nipples interrupting the perfect lines. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
Suddenly she wanted to be able to do that, to take an image like this one, whether for her own memory or for others. If he could make her look like that, then anyone could be beautiful. She sat up, grasping his wrist. “Teach me how to do that. I want to learn.”
He powered off the camera. “Let’s go! Let’s do it!”
She held on more tightly. “Can I photograph you? Or at least try?”
“Definitely. I can’t think of anything more fun to do. Do you want to stay here?”
Syria looked around. “No, we can do that later. I liked your idea, by the lake.”
“Then let’s head out before the sun gets too high.”
Syria let go of him and tried not to be too shy about sliding from the sheets. He watched her though, every movement, as if he couldn’t look anywhere else. She searched around for the bright peach dress. It was going to be wrinkled beyond belief. Anthony crawled across the end of the bed and retrieved it from the floor.
While she slid it back on, he grabbed some shorts and a t-shirt and packed the camera in a bag. “We’ll take just the basics, nothing like all the gear I had for Sharon.” He snapped the reflector onto a loop on the camera bag.
Syria located her shoes beneath the comforter, which had fallen off the bed. Anthony was watching her again, his smile crazy wide.
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” she asked.
“This is the best day ever. Well maybe second best, after yesterday.” He slung the bag over his shoulder. “I can’t wait to show you this spot.”
