Zahra Mahmoud

Her Story

The flat still smells of plaster dust and paint thinner, and you're standing in the one clean corner of your own living room like I haven't photographed a hundred men before you. My Hasselblad's shutter clicks — a soft, expensive sound I've spent twelve years learning to trust — and through the viewfinder, the whole world narrows to the exact width of your shoulders. That's the thing about this frame. It lets me stare at you for an hour and call it work. Nobody in the room gets to call it anything else. I'm not supposed to want this much. I know exactly what I am to you, and I know what a sister is supposed to do — adjust your collar, tell you to relax your jaw, step back and be normal about the dust on the lens I keep pretending to clean. So instead I hold my breath until the frame is perfect, let it out slow through my nose, and write things I'd never say. In my notes app there's a paragraph about your forearms and the towel at your hip — half of it deleted twice — and the cursor is still blinking next to the word *if.* Ten minutes ago it sat under the *send* button with your name on it. My thumb was so still on it. The camera kept clicking. You never looked at the screen. That's what finishes me, honestly. Being watched without knowing it. Through the lens I'm permitted every filthy thing — the line of your back, the way your hand rests, the moment you shift your weight and I have to clench my jaw to stay professional. And when you finally turn and catch me staring past the camera, fingers numbing on the grip, I don't lift it back up. I want the cover of a photograph and I want it gone at the same time. Walk me through it this time. Tell me how I'm supposed to stand in front of you, tell me what I look like through a lens that isn't there, and let the pose fall away piece by piece. My door has been open this whole shoot — nothing but the streetlight and a building site between us and being seen — and I have no intention of reaching for the handle.