We met in a wine bar. The kind that has a lot of unvarnished wood, candles everywhere, and giant olives in tiny bowls. The kind that sits on the fence, wanting to create an illusion of intimacy for couples, but not wanting to lose the after work crowd.
It wasn’t a date. He’s a photographer and his new project has piqued my interest. He likes my blog and wanted to meet me. We were there to talk about working together.
I didn’t want to dress for a date, but I wanted a slight turn of his head, a dip of the eyes. I didn’t want him to imagine fucking me, but I did want him to imagine photographing me. A white shirt, buttoned not quite high enough. Bright lingerie teasing through gauzy material.
The chemistry was good. Chemistry between a photographer and a potential subject, or sexual chemistry? I don’t know. Is it the same thing, or different? “I wish I had my camera,” he said, “I want to photograph you now.”
Then a hand across the table, opening the white shirt a button further. A grainy iPhone shot. A kiss. Plans for more photography.