Sundress

The paperwork sat on the passenger seat for three days before Nikki finally signed it.

She did it in the parking lot outside the grocery store, using the dashboard as a desk, her grocery list crumpled under one corner. Brad had been asking her daily if she'd done it yet.

"You should drop those papers off today," he said cheerfully from the doorway, boots already on.

She signed. Folded the papers. Dropped them off at Dominic's studio on her way home.

"I've got a client for summer dresses," Dominic said flatly. "Be here Thursday at nine."

"Already?" She paused, thinking about her schedule. "Yeah. I can be here."

"See you then."

Thursday morning she showed up in flats and jeans and a gray tee, hair loose, no makeup except mascara and a swipe of gloss she'd reapplied three times in the car.

The studio was different when it was just her. The morning light through the big windows made everything look softer, less like a warehouse and more like a greenhouse. Dominic had set up a rack of dresses on a rolling hanger — a half-dozen of them in plastic garment bags with a clothing company's logo printed on the side.

"Summer collection," he said, handing her a clipboard with a shot list. "Beach resort wear. Easy stuff. Light colors, breathable fabrics. They want natural — candid, like we caught you on vacation."

Nikki scanned the list. Six dresses. A few changes of accessories. "Is this a full day?"

"It's a half day. You'll cycle through them quickly. Each look is maybe twenty minutes, tops."

She changed into the first dress behind a screen in the corner of the studio that was doing its best impression of a dressing room. Pale blue linen, calf-length, with a slit that stopped just above the knee. She walked out and Ruben was already adjusting the reflector, and he looked up and his mouth did something small and he went back to work without saying anything.

Dominic circled her once. "You've got good instincts. Let's see what you look like relaxed."

The first few shots felt mechanical. She stood where he told her, put her hand where he asked, tilted her chin. The camera clicked and she waited for the next instruction, and somewhere around the fifth frame she realized she was still holding her breath.

"Give me something," Dominic said. "You're posing at the camera. I want you posing for it."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is — " He lowered the camera. "The difference is who you're doing it for. Those test shots last week? Those were for Brad. You had an audience you cared about. Right now you're just hitting marks."

She thought about that. Thought about Brad, who wasn't there admiring her. Thought about the kid with the hole in his cuff who was.

"I'm in the dress," she said. "That's enough, isn't it?"

"It's a starting point." Dominic lifted the camera again. "But I want you to remember standing in your hallway last week. The way you looked at your husband when you knew he wanted you. That's the one I want."

Nikki closed her eyes. Found the feeling. Opened them.

The second dress was olive green, wrap-style, with a neckline that dipped dangerously. She let it dip. She let her hand rest on her hip and turned her shoulder toward the light and imagined Brad walking through that door, seeing her like this, crossing the room to pull the sash loose.

Click.

Dominic said, "Better."

The third dress was a disaster. Peplum. Too much fabric at the waist, a print that made her look like a tablecloth from a beachside diner. She stood in front of the camera and hated every frame, and Dominic must have seen it because he cycled her through quickly, barely fifteen minutes before he said, "Next."

She peeled it off behind the screen and stood in her bra and underwear for a moment, looking at herself in the full-length mirror. The dim light was kind. Her stomach was still flat at thirty-five, her thighs still strong from the swimming that had built her shoulders half a lifetime ago. She ran a hand over her ribs and thought about the girl on the fire escape in the bad photo from 2015, the slip dress, the two in the morning.

"Four?" she called out.

"Four."

She unzipped the garment bag and pulled out a sleeveless shift dress in cream. Clean lines, hit above the knee, simple. She paired it with the sandals Ruben had left by the screen and walked out feeling like herself again.

The morning smoothed out after that. The coral maxi was easy. By noon she'd shot five looks and Dominic was looser behind the lens, and Ruben had stopped pretending not to look.

"You're doing great," Dominic said, checking the display. "Okay. Only one more dress." He gestured to a garment bag hanging separate from the others. No logo on the plastic.

Nikki unzipped it and pulled out a white sundress. Simple — spaghetti straps, a hem that would hit mid-thigh, a scoop neck. The fabric looked almost translucent in the studio light. It was the kind of dress that looked innocent on the hanger and confident on a body.

She ran her thumb along the fabric. She could see her hand through it, a pale ghost of itself.

"It's see-through."

"White is see-through in certain light. That's what makes it interesting."

She laughed. "Dominic, it's a sundress. It's transparent."

"The camera doesn't see what you think it sees. The sensor picks up layers, shadows, light bouncing off surfaces. What looks sheer to your eye might read as soft focus in the final image." He stepped closer. "I can edit anything you're not comfortable with. I've shown you that."

She looked at the dress. Looked at Dominic's face, patient. Looked at Ruben, who was pretending to organize cables but whose head was angled toward her like a sunflower toward the sun.

She held it up against the light. The fabric glowed. Her silhouette would be visible through it, she realized. Every curve, every shadow. The thought sent a prickle across her skin that wasn't entirely fear.

She took the dress behind the screen and changed.

The fabric was lighter than anything she'd worn all day. It settled over her like a second skin, cool and whisper-thin, and when she looked in the mirror she could see the outline of her bra through the white. The straps. The underwire. The shape of her breasts beneath the lace.

She touched her stomach through the fabric. Her hand was visible.

"Nikki?" Dominic's voice, low. "You ready?"

She stepped out.

Ruben dropped the cable he'd been holding.

The dress clung to her hips, rode up slightly when she moved, and she felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the amount of skin showing. It was the threat of visibility. The promise of it.

"Damn," Dominic said, very quietly. "Okay. Stand right over there. Let me see what the light does."

She walked in front of the window and the dress went translucent. Her legs, her thighs, the curve of her waist — all of it visible through the white, a ghost of her body printed on the fabric.

"The bra," Dominic said. "It's fighting the line of the dress."

She knew what he was asking. Her pulse ticked up, a small flutter in her throat. "I didn't bring a strapless."

"If you take it off," he said, "the dress will drape differently. The fabric will fall the way it's supposed to. And I can edit anything — anything at all — to keep it tasteful. I promise you."

She looked at Ruben. He was staring at the floor, but his jaw was tight and his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and there was something about the way he was trying not to look.

"Turn around," she said.

They both turned. She stepped behind the screen, unhooked her bra, and slid it out from under the dress. The fabric settled against her skin like it had been waiting for permission. She looked down and saw the shape of her nipples through the white, the shadow between her legs, the whole geography of her body rendered in soft charcoal and pale light.

She walked out with her chin up.

Dominic turned. His hands went still on the camera. He didn't say anything for a long moment.

"Against the wall," he said finally. "Feet apart. Hand in your hair."

She did it. The dress rode up. The backlight caught her silhouette — her breasts, the dip of her waist, the vee where her thighs met.

"Ruben. Scrim, low and to the left. Angle it up." A pause. "There. Hold that."

The light changed, softened, pooled. Nikki watched Ruben hold it, arms steady, and something about his steadiness — the fact that he was working, that he was good at it — made it easier to stand there.

Click. Click. Click.

"Look at me," Dominic said. "No — don't smile. Look at me like you know something I don't."

She did. The shutter kept going, and heat crept up her chest, a flush that had nothing to do with the temperature. She could feel Ruben's eyes on her between adjustments, could feel the hunger coming off him, and it made her want to arch her back further.

"Bend forward. Hands on your knees."

She obeyed. The fabric gaped away from her chest and she saw Dominic's jaw tighten as he framed the shot. The dress hung like a curtain, and she knew exactly what he could see — the shape of her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach.

"One more," he said. "Lie on the floor. On your back. Let the dress do what it wants."

She lay down on the padded tile. The fabric pooled around her, thinning over her body until she might as well have been wearing nothing at all. The ceiling lights blazed down, and she closed her eyes because it was easier that way.

"Don't close your eyes. You're hiding. You want to be tempting."

She opened them.

She felt the camera above her. Felt Dominic circling. Felt Ruben's presence like a heat signature.

"Arch your back," Dominic said. "Just slightly. Yes. That's — yes."

She heard the shutter and imagined the photograph: her body printed on white, every line visible, every secret exposed. She thought about Brad seeing it. About strangers seeing it. About the women in the grocery store who would look at her and not know.

The thought made her gasp.

"Hold that frame," Dominic said, and the camera clicked again.

When he finally said "That's a wrap," she stayed on the floor for an extra moment, catching her breath. The dress clung to her damp skin. She could feel her own heartbeat in her throat.

She got up, put her bra back on behind the screen, and came out to see the images on Dominic's laptop.

The client shots were fine. Good, even. She looked relaxed in the coral maxi, elegant in the cream shift. She scrolled through them and nodded, making mental notes for Brad.

Then Dominic opened a new folder.

The first image was her against the wall. The backlight had turned the sundress into a veil of light, her silhouette rendered in perfect detail — her breasts, the inward curve of her waist, the dark triangle at the base of her belly. You could see the exact point where her thighs met. It looked like a charcoal drawing, like something from an art book.

She made a sound. A small one.

"I know," Dominic said. "I told you."

She scrolled to the next one. Her bent over, hands on her knees. The dress had fallen forward and her breasts were visible through the fabric, the curve of each one distinct. It was more revealing than she'd expected. More — everything.

"These are amazing," she said. "And I can't show half of them to my husband."

Dominic reached for the keyboard. "Pick which ones you want to keep. I'll edit the dress to a higher opacity."

She went through the set. She set aside the ones she wanted — the silhouette against the wall, the one where she lay on the floor with her back arched, the one where she looked at the camera with her hair in her face. She asked him to fix the ones where the dress read as transparent rather than suggestive.

He worked fast. Five minutes per image, ten for the tricky ones. The opacity climbed, the fabric went solid, and the shots became something she could show at a dinner party.

"Here." He hit a key. "Check the originals against the edits."

She looked at both versions. The edited ones were beautiful. They were also a lie.

"Can I have the unedited ones too?"

Dominic smiled and copied both folders onto a USB drive.

She took it home, copied the originals to her phone, put them in the hidden album, deleted them from the stick, and dropped the stick in the kitchen drawer. She showered, changed into a silk robe, and spent the evening pacing the living room, waiting for Brad to walk through the door.

He came home at ten. He was tired, still dusty from the airport, and he dropped his bag by the door and said, "I need a beer and a bed."

Nikki handed him the USB.

"These are from today?"

"Client shots."

He plugged it into the TV. The first image — her in the cream shift dress — filled the screen. He smiled. "God, you're gorgeous. I love the neckline on this one."

She watched him scroll. He made appreciative noises, asked questions about the dresses, laughed at her description of the peplum disaster. Then he reached the sundress shots.

He went quiet.

The silhouette against the wall. Her on the floor, back arched. The one where she looked at the camera with her head tilted, her nipples a soft suggestion through the edited fabric.

"Babe," he said. "These are — " He turned to her. "You look incredible. You should get one of these."

She grabbed his belt and unbuckled it, then the button of his jeans. Then she hooked her fingers in the waistband and pulled, taking pants and boxers down in one motion.

He stumbled. She pushed him back into the armchair, climbed over him, and reached past his shoulder to switch on the lamp.

"You want the light on?"

She didn't answer. She had him in her hand, already hard, and she pulled her panties aside and sank down onto him. His head fell back against the cushion.

"Wow. Okay." He gripped her hips. "What's gotten into you?"

"You," she said.

She rode him with her eyes open, watching his face, and she didn't close them and she didn't look away, and Brad's hands went from her hips to her ribs to her thighs like he was trying to find somewhere to put them.

"Hey," he said, wrecked already. "Hey, slow down — "

She didn't. He came first, which almost never happened, and she followed a minute later with her forehead against his and her fingers dug into the back of the chair.

Afterward neither of them moved. He was breathing like he'd run somewhere.

When he was asleep, she got up.

She went to the living room, sat on the floor with her back against the couch, and opened the hidden album.

The first image was her against the wall. Her nipples were visible through the fabric — not a suggestion, not a silhouette, but a clear, unmistakable outline. The curve of her breasts. The shadow between her legs.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then she turned off the lamp, went back to bed, and lay down beside him.

Brad was snoring. She lay beside him in the dark, phone face-down on the nightstand, the unedited images glowing in her mind like a secret she could keep forever.