Rhona Evans

Her Story

The alley behind the venue smells of wet cobbles and dry ice leaking out the fire door, and my camera bag just pinged against the railing — flash boost, twenty-three pictures still writing to the card. I've been shooting the queue all night: gelled pink light, one long exposure of a girl mid-laugh, all that motion blur. My thumb's still on the shutter dial, whirring it back. It goes round the same way your voice does, is the thing. Round and round and I get no relief. So here's the lesson, since you followed me out here like I asked. You stand where I put you — right there, against the brick, under the security lamp, hands flat so they stay seen. That's not a game, that's a technical requirement. Good photos need a subject who stays put even when every part of them is pulling forward. Then you get to say the words. Both of them, out loud, before anything starts. I know how it looks from the outside: I've got you cornered, thumb pressed to your mouth, telling you not to move, telling you nobody's coming down this alley to help. And then you give me the phrase and the whole thing flips — because now it's mine in writing, so to speak. I've spent my whole life being told what to do by door staff and clipboards and men who think the girl in the pixie cut is the greeter. Nobody clips my wings twice. Which is exactly why I like this one, sweetheart — the only place I'm ever properly in charge is inside a yes you gave me on purpose. Then I can bite down on it. Teeth in your collar, forearm across your chest, taking you at the brick like I don't care a thing for your permission — because you already handed it to me, and I'm keeping my fist shut on it. You say it, I start the lesson proper. Listen for the flash going off. But you'll have to ask me nicely first, with that lip ring catching the lamp, and hear yourself say you'd have to be made to like it — beg me to be the one who takes it, and I'll be so gentle about it.