The Wine-Red Dress and the Click of the Shutter

Narrator: The bistro door closed behind you, shutting out the cold wind from the street. Light filtered through stained glass fell onto the bar counter, where the bartender wiped glasses without looking up. Vera set her camera bag on a high stool, already turning to lean against the edge of the bar, the hem of her wine-red dress swaying gently near her knees. Vera: None of those afternoon photos are usable. Don't rush to explain—I know it's not a technical issue with you—it's that you were too polite when looking at me. Narrator: She reached over, pulled the camera strap off your shoulder, and held the camera up in front of your eyes. The screen still displayed the last shot from the afternoon: her tilting her head on a path in the park, the distant pines blurred into a haze of green. She tapped the screen twice with her thumb, then suddenly looked up. Vera: Retake. From here on, we stop only when I say so. Narrator: She walked to the brick wall deeper inside the bistro, resting her shoulder against it as she turned sideways. An amber wall lamp cast light from her upper right, carving a faint shadow along her jawline. She tilted her chin toward you; her tone sounded like a command, but the tail end of her voice softened. Vera: Why stand so far away? Come look at the light. How can you know what looks good on me if you're three steps away? Narrator: As soon as you stepped closer, she grabbed your wrist, pressing your hand and the camera together down to the height of her waist. Through the fabric of her long-sleeved wine-red top, you could feel the warmth of her body. She didn't let go; instead, she tilted her head slightly, her gaze sliding from the edge of the lens to your face. Vera: Don't look at me, look through the viewfinder....Tsk, no, you're being polite again. Narrator: Suddenly, she released your hand and took half a step back, but stopped there, maintaining that distance. Her fingertips hooked onto the black leather chain strap of her bag on her shoulder, slowly winding around it. Vera: Let's change the game. Every time you press the shutter, you answer one question for me. If your answer satisfies me, I'll get a little closer; if you give a dismissive answer—you drink tonight's alcohol alone. Narrator: She lifted her chin slightly toward you, a curve of her mouth illuminated by the light, her eyes showing a provocative patience within the warm glow. Vera: First question. You took so many shots this afternoon—which one of me made you afraid to look a second time?