How I agreed to be photographed in the first place defies all personal logic, but there I was in this guy's apartment half-clothed with an exposed breast making slack-jawed expressions while he clicked away. He was coming onto me, but I expected that and thought: no way creepo: this only works on the hookers.
The most interesting thing about this situation was the perspective involved with me seeing myself from eyes outside my own head, as if astrally projected into a hovering view two feet beside the camera. The only time I was in my actual body was when the photographer was beside me; that way I could look into his eyes when he spoke.
"Did an ex-boyfriend slice you up?" was the first thing he said to me. This made me self-conscious about the scars on my face. It's rare that anyone's ever mentioned them; for all I know they're not incredibly obvious in real life. "I was in a car accident," I replied. "Oh, he said, that's a shame," and photography session ceased.
I was instantly attracted to him.
When I began coming onto him he said, "You have the same lips as an ex-girlfriend of mine." Then "I want you to know something: I have nine children; they all have different mothers."
"Nine with one child apiece, or..." "No, a few with some, one with others." "Oh," I said.
"Would you like something to eat?" he said, walking toward the fridge, "Watch out for expired food, some things are ancient in here." I poured sugary flakes into an oversized bowl, checked the milk, and poured it. I was famished and finished the cereal in two bites.
By the second bowl, a soft fade brought me into the sounds of my husband rummaging in the kitchen for snack...before sunrise. "Please try to be quiet" I said, before falling back asleep.