I don't give a fuck if they're over a hundred, she thought, but said, with an effort at subdued reasonableness: "Send them a picture of someone else. Someone who looks like me."
"I want them to know the woman I'm going to spend the rest of my life with is beautiful. A picture is worth a thousand words."
"Send them a thousand words."
"I've described you in every e-mail. My e-mails are all about you, sweetheart. But they beg for a picture."
"You shouldn't handle your camera when you're drunk," she said, and stared down at her shoes. She never wore high heels to work. These had ridiculously high heels. But she had. She used to be able to dance in the highest heels.
"I'm not as drunk as you, my dear."
"I'm not even close to drunk."
"We've known each other nearly a year."
"No photographs."
"You said you never get drunk."
"And I'm not drunk."
"This is going to be painless. The photos will be leaving the country, so you can pretend they don't exist. I'll destroy the negatives."
She took off her long skirt and flung it away.
"You look so silly," he said. "You have a secret desire to do a stockings ad?"
"Ah, you noticed."
"How could I not notice, sweetheart?"
"Well, do you like what you see?" Amanda said softly, sitting down on the couch and kicking off a shoe in her fiancé's direction. He turned slightly, attempting to protect his camera, and the shoe landed not far from him. He gave the shoe a little kick away. "You want to touch my legs?" she said, rubbing her legs again.
"What kind of question is that?" the fiancé said, pointing the camera at Amanda, safely behind his camera.
"The kind of question I ask an aspiring fashion photographer."
"Please put your skirt back on," he said, his face hidden behind the camera. "This would be appropriate for a stockings ad, but not for my parents." He looked headless to her, a bizarre creature.
Rumour she slept with a fifty-year-old pillar of society
another rumour he was a sprightly man of one hundred
the strongest rumour was that she slept with the oldest man on Earth
and became a celebrity
in a not too often visited, perilous country,
enough to get the sleepiest awake with curiosity.
She stood up, kicked off the other shoe, it clattering against a wall, she thinking the shoe had said ouch, and she walked toward the kitchen: "You want some cereal?"
"After we take the photo."
"I sure want some cereal. I want to mix all your cereals in one big bowl and have a feast."
"Sounds tempting, but first let me photograph you. Come back in here."
"I'm having another glass of one of those exotic wines you bought for our romantic evening together," she said, and poured herself a glass. "Wine and cereal appeal to me right at this romantic moment. I might forgo the cereal part, but not the wine."
"Do you want to get more drunk?" he said from the living room, unable to see her.
"I might want to get drunk now, not more drunk. I'm not drunk yet."
"Have the cereal with your skirt on," he said, picking up her skirt and carrying it into the kitchen. "Stockings aren't to be worn without a skirt."
As he moved closer to her, she drank quickly. "You're right," she said, and took off her blouse, wrapping it around her waist. "This better?"
"I'm glad no one else is here."
"If we had company, we could offer them some cereal."
"I don't share my cereal with just anyone."
"Cereal and wine, what a tempting combination. We could build an advertising campaign around it," she said, adding wine to the cereal.
"I don't think it would catch on. Doesn't sound appetizing."
She finished her wine-soaked cereal, and said, "Beer and cereal might have a better chance of catching the public's imagination, wouldn't you say?"
"You must be drunk now," he said, checking the light meter on his camera. "The light's much better in the living room."
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