Don't look at him when he speaks.
Don't remember the sick sweet feeling of image at the base of your belly. Don't imagine the cobblestone streets he rides through, curved line of body into wind, afterimage of black hair and brown leather jacket flaps. Do not think of the self-contained energy of erection, that directed action that always makes you feel like furniture, your heart baet paced to the book in your lap, so quiet he sometimes could not feel you in the room. His movement, action that created form, not the idea of the thing but the thing itself. Like the boxes on the floor spilling spools of film and containers of chemicals whose function you once knew but never used. Just the odd comment from beneath the lens, legs bound in rubber, back yet again turned to the camera. Just the notion of a woman perhaps, just the reflection of the photographer, upside down and reversed in the mirror of the camera, so afraid of blurring you hold back, don't even breath, until the tinny click of the shutter closing, then - you are that thing produced by his directed action, fulfilled in the doubling of self by the alchemy of steel, glass, wire springs.