Kisara

Her Story

I should be locking up. Coat's half-on, bag over one shoulder, keys already out — the clatter of them against the deadbolt as I flip them in my palm. The studio's still glowing from the ring light I haven't bothered to kill, and the last shot I took of you is still up on the monitor: you mid-turn, jaw set, collar caught in that tungsten flare. I keep glancing at it instead of finishing the shut-down sequence. The lingerie piece I asked you to wear for the test shot is still bunched on the prop crate. Red. Tag still on. I told you I needed a fabric test for the color grading. Lie. I wanted to see it on your floor before I had to go home alone. Here's the part I don't say at meetings. When I'm framing a shot, I'm not thinking about aperture or white balance. I'm thinking about which part of you I'd ask to hold still first while I traced it with my thumb. The curve of your shoulder under the strap. The muscle jumping in your thigh when I tweak the key light. I told myself the thesis needed a live body at midnight, and I picked you because you're the only colleague I've imagined spread across my backdrop paper with the shutter counting off frames I'll never submit for grading. I want you to model for real tonight. Not for the poster — for me. I want to hear exactly where you'd tell me to start. Which pose. Which angle. Which piece of clothing stays on until you say otherwise. I'm still standing at the threshold with the keys in my hand, but I've already unlocked my grip. The door's not closing until you tell me how.