Photos for the exhibition 2

Mira kept taking photos in between. Not the poses. The mistakes.

When Silke scratched her butt because sweat was making her crotch itch. When she wiped moisture from the crease under her breast with the back of her hand, lifting her breast unflatteringly in the process. When she bent over to pick something up off the floor that Mira had deliberately dropped: her soft belly sagged, her tits drooped forward, her ass spread apart, and her shaved pussy flashed unflatteringly, red from the concrete.

Click. Click. Click.

That was exactly what “unvarnished” meant.

Mira pushed the bed right up against the open window. The casters squeaked across the hall floor. Three meters above the street. Daylight beating down on the mattress. No sheet. Just the bare cover and boxes serving as a nightstand.

“Get in there. Now you rest. Just like after a workout.”

Silke crawled up. Sweaty. Her head red, her hairline damp, her skin glistening. She lay on her back, her breasts spilling to the sides, her stomach rising and falling. She was still wet between her legs. The workout. Game night. The window. Mira photographed her lying there, as if exhaustion were a stylistic device.

Then, out of nowhere: “Do you like pizza with salami?”

Silke nodded. She didn’t know why Mira asked that. It didn’t matter. Her mouth was dry. A pizza sounded like a normal world that no longer existed in this hall.

Mira posed her in various positions. On her side, one breast squished. Half on her stomach, face pressed into a pillow of air, because there was no pillow. One leg bent so the light fell into the crease of her thigh. Again and again, the window in the background, the blank wall across from it, the possibility that someone below might look up and see only a soft, naked mass.

“Last shot. Wait here. And stay naked.”

Silke relaxed. She even closed her eyes. The concrete was hard. The bed was soft. For three breaths, she believed she was taking a break. Mira secretly kept taking photos. Closed eyes. Open mouth. Sweat on her upper lip. One hand limp beside her wet pussy.

Then a ringing.

Silke jumped up. Mira was in the back. From there came the instruction: “Please open the door. And let him in.”

Silke sat naked on the mattress. Was that part of the assignment? Mira had said: stay naked. Not: put something on. She didn’t want an argument. She went to the door. Naked. One hand tried to cover both breasts. The soft flesh spilled out on the left and right. Her crotch remained exposed. So did her butt. She opened the door just a crack.

Outside stood a delivery guy. Southern European. Dark-haired. Wearing a jacket with a logo. A heated delivery box in his hand. The smell of grease, salami, and oregano.

Silke peeked out from behind the door.

“Um. Yeah.”

“I’m here to deliver a pizza.” He held up the slip, read the address, then first saw the crack, then skin, then realized that the woman in the doorway wasn’t wearing any pants.

Silke remembered the question. Pizza with salami. She opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

He came in.

The view was unobstructed. Naked Silke, red-faced, one hand on her breasts, sweat, her soft belly, the shaved area between her legs, the open window far in the back, the bed without sheets. He stopped two steps behind the threshold.

“Am I in the right place?”

“Yes. Yes.” Silke was already walking back to the bed, as if distance could erase her nakedness. She lay down again, because Mira had ordered her to, and because standing there in front of him was worse. Her hand slid off her breasts. He stared. Not even politely. His gaze lingered on her nipples, slid down to her belly, to the glistening patch between her thighs.

Mira came back from the side, camera raised again.

“Ah, there you are. Thanks for the early delivery. I know you don’t open until later. But I did promise a tip. Would you mind helping us out right now?”

Silke and he looked horrified. The same expression. Different reasons.

“This is Silke.” Mira used her real name. “We’re doing a photo shoot. Silke just got back from working out and is ravenous. You’re her boyfriend. Would you like to get in bed with her and eat the pizza while I take pictures?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Silke, naked, sweaty, her name still hanging in the air.

“But the pizza had extra salami. It’s really greasy. We’ll ruin the sheets.” He laughed, uncertainly, as if humor could save the day.

Mira laughed along with him.

“No problem. That’s the idea.”

She pointed to his feet.

“You just have to take off your shoes and jacket. Keep the rest on. Otherwise, the contrast won’t be strong enough.”

He hesitated. Looked toward the door. Looked at Silke. Looked at the camera. The promised tip hung unspoken between them. He took off his shoes. His jacket. Underneath, a black shirt, his work pants, his belt. Fully clothed next to a naked woman. The contrast was immediately jarring: fabric against skin, work against sweat, a stranger on the edge of the mattress beneath the open window.

Mira pressed the cardboard box into his hand.

“Eat with her. Feed her. I’ll let you know when to stop.”

He sat down. The mattress gave way. Silke instinctively moved away and then back again because Mira raised her finger. The cardboard box opened. Heat. Oil. Salami glistened. A strip of cheese stretched into strings.

He held out the first piece to her, awkwardly. Silke bit into it because Mira was already clicking her tongue. Grease ran down her lower lip, dripping onto her upper breast. A red oil stain spread across her pale skin.

“Keep going.”

He ate some himself. One piece. Then he held another out to her. Silke took it with her fingers; the toppings slipped and landed on her stomach. Warm grease. Oregano. She wanted to wipe it off. Mira shook her head.

“Leave it there.”

They messed up the bed, just as promised.

Oil on the sheet. Crumbs in the crease of Silke’s breast. A piece of salami slipped between her breasts. The delivery man laughed softly, sheepishly, and Mira photographed that very laugh above a naked, greasy woman. He wiped his fingers on his own pants, then, after glancing at Mira, on Silke’s thigh. The smudge glistened.

Silke was dripping.

Not just oil.

The wetness between her legs grew as a stranger in work clothes ate pizza next to her and Mira used her full name as if it were part of the scene. A trickle ran from her onto the mattress. Then down the inside of her thigh. Then, when she had to roll onto her side, across her lower breast.

Exactly what Mira needed.

“Leg up. Pizza on your stomach. You’re not holding the box. He’s holding it.”

The box stood on Silke’s soft stomach. Warmth. Weight. Grease seeped through the cardboard bottom, forming a dark circle on her skin. He leaned over, took a bite, his chest over hers. The scent of him: scooter, kitchen, aftershave. Silke held her breath. His free hand braced itself beside her head. Almost a hug. Except that she was naked and he wasn’t, and the camera never stopped rolling.

“Don’t kiss her. Just eat. Look at her as if she were yours.”

He obeyed, uncertainly. Looked at her. Silke blushed all the way down to her chest. A new drop trickled into the cleft of her pubic hair—which no longer existed—and from there onto the bed.

Mira switched sides, facing the window. Daylight on oil, sweat, pizza juice, Silke’s juices. Unvarnished. Chubby. The truth, still without explanation.

“Put a slice on her tits. Leave it there.”

He placed a slice of salami on Silke’s nipple. Ridiculous. Mean. The fat melted immediately. The slice slid into the cleft. Silke didn’t moan. A sound came out anyway. The delivery guy swallowed hard.

“It’s dripping onto your belly, thighs, and tits,” Mira said, almost kindly, as if describing a photograph. “Don’t wipe it off. Silke, hands by your sides. You’ve just finished working out. Your boyfriend is bringing you food. That’s the story.”

Silke placed her hands by her sides. Exposed. Naked. Under the window. With a man she didn’t know, whose first name no one had mentioned, even though it was on the menu and in his head.

He took the last slice. Cheese dripped from the pizza onto her navel. He laughed again, helplessly.

“We’ve really ruined everything.”

“Yes,” said Mira, pressing the shutter. “That’s exactly how I wanted her.”