Ruined.  I shot again last night, just pretty fluff the model wanted, something she could put up in the house and show mom and dad.  I pay back.  All digital.  850 frames.  Again, I figure there have to be five or six good ones.  But she got there late and we took a long time as she changed outfits and then it was late and I pushed the button once more and approached for a high five.  Good job, I said.

She is not a bubbly girl.  She is even kind of mean.  She is very critical and is mostly negative in her comments.  The last time we shot together, she hurt my feelings a bit (lot), but when the shoot was done, I thought at least I don't have to see her any more.  Perhaps, though, the images seduced her because she has been bothering me about coming back.  I don't hold grudges if I can help it, and though I couldn't be as vulnerable with her as I was before (expecting that they are going to be very vulnerable, too), I said sure.  I thought she would show up with a trunk full of cheesy clothes from the mall that are a little redneck girl's idea of fashion, but she showed up with nothing at all.

"What are we going to shoot tonight," she asked me.  I was flummoxed.

"You didn't bring anything?"

"Just what I have on."

My mind was racing.  What were we going to do?  I'd already shot with her twice and have been gone a lot since, so the studio hasn't anything new.  I grabbed together some things lying around and we put together a couple different looks.

"I want to try a shot I saw on the internet," she said.  Try a shot?  And then she was on the ground in her underwear stretching out like a gymnast.  "I have to loosen up for this," she said.  I couldn't wait for this.  Then she draped over the back of the couch with her head on the floor and her back bent, bringing her legs behind her head.  Sort of.  She grunted and her face went from red to purple, big veins popping out in her forehead.  "How's that," she grunted.  I wasn't sure.  "Here," I said grabbing my camera, "let me take a picture and you can see."  After she looked at the photo, she gave me instructions on how her legs should be.  I have to say, she was determined.  She would get up and pant and puff and sit on the couch for a minute and then try it again.  I had no idea what she had in mind, but I kept taking pictures.  After about half an hour of this (successful or not I don't know), she said, "Well, maybe I'll just appreciate the other model's picture."

As I said, it was late when we finished, and I never get the idea that this girl particularly likes me but think that she simply comes for the pictures I can give her, so I began to clean up the studio as she got back into the clothing she came in.  Then she grabbed a beer and sat on the couch.  She didn't say anything, just sort of got comfortable.  I wasn't so much, though, and started making conversation.

"So tell me a story," I said.  But she didn't.  She did, but it wasn't a story in that it had no conflict, no resolution.  It was just flat.

"I'm pretty boring," she said.  "I don't do much."

"No fear," I said.  "I have plenty of stories."

So I told some.  She didn't react to them very much, but she made no move to leave.  I felt like a bad club performer with an audience who was talking among themselves, that same sort of tension gripping my gut.  What do I do, I wondered?  It was now past midnight.  I had only five hours sleep the night before.  I dreaded the morning and the factory the next day.  And so I said, "You're gonna love me when I send you these pictures.  You're gonna beg for me to shoot you again."

"I'm excited," she said.

"But we will have to shoot for me next time."

"O.K."