“One, two, three, cheese,” he said, and snapped the plastic button. I’d been at this work for years. I could imagine almost anything and then become it, visually speaking. For this very last picture, I put aside the all-American sex-heat and became the white lady of Balete Drive, cold and not exactly there. I made like moonlight flooding the camera lens. I receded to a bright puddle and dissolved. Perfect. Right there. Here we go. By the time they touched my image—blurred it, altered me—there would be nothing left.
