about to take the picture, and then lowered it. “Wait.” I gripped his hand when he started to undo the button of my shorts. “Don’t worry. I won’t do that. Here. You do it. Unzip them just a little.” I did. “Oh, yeah.” He positioned the phone again.
Simona’s warning came back to me. He’ll use you.
This was not me. I wanted to tell him to wait and that I wanted to put my shirt back on. This was not me.
Click.
My picture belonged to him.
He didn’t look at me, but at his screen. I held my breath. He turned the phone around to show me. It was my low-cut jean shorts with the silver button undone. My pink nail polish on my pinkie finger that hovered in the air as my other fingers held down the zipper. It was my freckled torso, not without its own love handles. My seamless beige bra, and my cleavage, firm and curvy. He kept my face out of the photo.
“See? Just for me to look. Until I can touch.”
I exhaled.
His head turned suddenly. Someone was home.