Bus

“How do you sleep?”

“Pardon?” She asked, looking up her eyes met the gaze of a smiling young man. He was about five foot eleven, wore pressed deep blue jeans, and a white short sleeve button down shirt. He had a beard, but it was very close cut, it felt like he had just started growing it the week before, but probably in reality had been trimming it for weeks. She inched away from him slightly pressing up against the bus window, not realizing that this might be misconstrued as an invitation to sit. He smiled even bigger and took the opportunity to sit down next to her.

“I said, how do you sleep?” He repeated with more gusto.

“What do you mean, how do I sleep? How does anyone sleep? lying down, I guess,” she said sort of flabbergasted that somebody would have asked such a stupid question. He stared at her with a near blank face, just the hint of a smile; She stared back trying to break his wall, but couldn't even create a crack. Why are there always creepers on the bus, she thought to herself.

“I know how people physically sleep…” he started.

“Oh good, well that’s nice to know.” She interjected, hoping to annoy him enough to leave her alone. She then turned to look out the window.

“But that’s not what I meant,” he continued, completely unfazed by her actions. “I meant, do you dream? How long does it take you to go to sleep? What do you think about? Do you wonder what brings sleep about?”

She had never thought about these questions, and oddly she did find them interesting, like she needed to answer them. Instead she responded, “Do I know you? You’re sort of creeping me out with all these questions. Are you a serial killer?” She took a moment at the last question she asked, “on second thought, I don’t know why I asked that. Every one should answer that last one the same way, and if they don’t I guess that’s a big red flag…”

He looked fixedly at her as she trailed off lamely. He sat in silence as he pondered her question. “No, I’m just on a bus, talking to people, I’m sorry if I offended you or came off as ‘creepy’. But I find life dreadfully boring if we all face forward and never talk to each other. I am sorry I bothered you.” He turned to get up, but she was caught off guard by his statement. Most guys would get angry offended and call her a name. But he seemed genuine, platonic, friendly.

“Wait.” She said to him, “How do you sleep?” He turned back and looked her in the face before choosing his words.

Delightedly he babbled, “I lie there, in bed on my back, staring at the ceiling, motionless. Then I hear music, something my mind constructs, its different every time, but it is always beautiful and amazing. Then I linger on the thoughts of the day, and turn to my side. Every thing goes dark and the dream scape opens for me.”

-V-

Reasons

Back arched, arms behind me, seated on the Victorian reproduction settee I await the photographer’s next instruction. It has been a trying shoot to say the least. Twice now I have had to fend off his requests to remove parts of my clothes. He’s tried plying me with various alcoholic drinks and the usual set of maneuvers and language they all use. But I know every trick in the bag and have yet to see one yet that has worked on me.

“Could you tilt your head down and to the left,” he says soothingly, too close to my ear.

“Like this?” I ask as I adjust my pose.

“Yes, just like that. Hold it a moment.” He seems to like this pose a lot as I can hear the shutter clicking away and the lights flash a strobe like cadence into my retinas. “It’s wonderful, but I wish we could get you to look a little more comfortable. Is it a bit hot in here, under the lights? Do you mind if I unbutton my shirt a little?”

I’ve played this game many times. I’m almost sure he has adjusted the thermostat to bring up the heat and purposefully pointed the floodlights on me to make me sweat. I’m a pro too, I think to myself, the extra antiperspirant should hold to the end of the shoot and all I really need to do is think of nice cool places like the arctic. The amazing power the mind can have over the body.

“No. I don’t mind, but you do know I have to be going in a few minutes. I have to get across town for another shoot.” It’s my usual line I give when I get to the point where I figure the photographer is just trying to get into my pants and I might get one or two usable snaps out of it.

“Oh that’s sad, yeah. I think I have enough to work with here.” He says playing a wounded animal. “I wish I could get you back soon to try some new ideas I have, when would you be available?”

“I’ll check my calendar and get back to you,” I say, as I really have no intention of ever seeing this guy in person again. I’ll get him to send me the edited photos through the net. I collect my things and quickly exit his studio. The cover story of another shoot was just to get out without too much cajoling on my part.

People ask me why I do this? And by this, I mean stand on the other side of the camera for all to see. It could be that I’m good at being a model. It could be that I’m deathly afraid of getting older, losing my looks. It could be that I just enjoy seeing myself, in magazines, on billboards, being recognized. But the truth is only for me, I have my reasons, and that’s all you need to know.

-V-