A late bird cried outside, saluting the passing twilight. It was the height of summer and the evening was hot, despite the mild breeze entering through the open windows.
Their love had been quick, but thorough. It had left her body feeling pleasantly exhausted and seemingly ready for sleep, but after a short while, Galata found herself feeling awake and vaguely dissatisfied.
She found her way to the kitchen, leaving the light off.
A mesmerizing royal purple streaked across the dark sky, beckoning through the wide window that stretched along the counter. Pinpricks of light marked the dark contours of the high rises ahead: little cubicles of life, eager to stretch out the day.
She stalked towards the fridge, and light streamed into the room, draping around her naked body as she sought out that evening's leftovers: a single plate of fresh tagliatelle, not yet fully cool, just shy of a full meal for one.
Galata carefully took off the flat ceramic plate that covered the dish, finding that little droplets of condensation had started to form on the inside. She tilted the plate to watch a few beads begin to roll down, then fuse together.
A sudden sensation of cold, as a droplet fell to her toes. Then another, and another...
With a slow, decisive sigh, she closed the fridge. Putting down the cover, she turned towards the window, her eyes beginning their slow adjustment to the dark.
"You are mine," she whispered conspiratorially towards her plate.
Perhaps another bite in the dark would make her feel whole.
Withoug bothering to put on clothes, Galata lifted herself onto the kitchen counter. The stainless steel was not quite as cool as she'd hoped, although the soft round porcelain rested pleasantly in her lap, the designer plate cool to the touch.
Her feet dangling, and her eyes ever more comfortable with the dark, Galata picked up half a cherry tomato with the tips of her fingers. She licked the morsel with the tip of her tongue, relishing the shimmering, half-congealed buttery coating.
Her lips closed in around the tomato.
Not too cold yet.
She let it roll inside the hollow of her cheek, before crushing it with her teeth. The acidic taste of the freshly seared-in juice tickled her tongue.
The taste was perfect.
Bernard had taught her this trick: exposing the halved cherry tomatoes to hot buttery pasta at the last moment, just before serving the dish, helped unlock their flavor. Fresh juices seared slightly, each tomato on its own could transform the creamy sauce, breaking apart the languid silkiness with a spike of fresh flavor.
It was one of several tricks Bernard had brought to the table, even if Galata remained the better chef overall.
Still, there was something deliciously pleasurable about making him cooking. With his running around all day, and his never-ending overwork. With his struggle to focus, and to pay attention to her amidst his chaotic life.
A meal was a practical way to make amends, even if it fell comfortably within his own love language. Still, she appreciated the offering amidst their well-worn dynamic...
In this light, it felt almost sacrificial.
She opened the drawer by her knee and rummage for a pair of chopsticks.
She began picking apart the tagliatelle with chopsticks. Would someone be offended, somewhere between China and Emilia-Romagna? Was this bad luck?
Raising a rich-looking strand to her mouth, Galata took a bite.
Suddenly eager for more, she operated the chopsticks, methodically dissecting the leftover pickings in the dark, her long fingers lifting and lowering to ferry the remains of the evening's tagliatelle to her mouth.
How was she still this hungry?
Suddenly self-conscious, she peaked over her shoulder. A thin moon. Neighbors in the high rise across the street would only see her back. If any of them cared to study the dark spaces across...
Galata returned her attention to the plate, luxuriating in the sacrificial delicacy.
"Don't move. Stay just like that."
Starteled, a short strand of tagliatelle slipped from her chopsticks to land on her thigh, leaving the skin of her abdomen messy with butter.
Bernard looked at her distractedly, searching for something special through the viewfinder of his camera. How long had he been observing? The magic of the moment fleeted, and Galata felt frustrated.
"What?" She asked, challenged him coolly.
"May I?" he replied, already flipping open a small tripod for below camera, spinning little wheels to adjust the length of the legs, expertly glancing over at her body.
At least he had the decency to ask. It was an improvement from the days when Bernard captured her at his every whim.
Galata was at ease in front of a camera, and felt self-confident in her natural poise, which Bernard called "enchanting". At first it was fun. But over time his flattery had ceased to impress her, leaving bare a mild but raw obsession to capture her in all her moods and different shades.
"Fine," Galata sighed, putting down the chopsticks.
"No, keep them lifted," Bernard instructed.
Galata knew she would have to hold still for a while. A series of a long exposure shots to account for the low-light conditions... she imagined the result: a dark, curved silhouette set against the fading day.
She bit her lips, yearning for the half-eaten plate of pasta, when an idea blossomed inside her.
She put down her chopsticks defiantly, and Bernard cried.
"I have conditions," she said. "You only get one shot, so better make it count. And for thirty minutes after, you have to do exactly what I want."
It was the perfect way to make him pay.
Galata and Bernard had been having repeated little conflicts, centering on his irregular and intense work schedule--accentuated by needs poorly formulated, and going unmet, building up resentment.
Fully freelancing since a year, Bernard had had to accept gigs wherever he could find them. The upside was that he got to direct bodies whichever way he wanted, as he expertly spun brief conversations towards momentary but meaningful connections with his clients--just enough for each session to produce a few pieces of film that captured shades of the client's true self.
Galata envied her husband's clients; less for the attention he gave them, and more for the time they got to lay claim to within his hectic day-to-day. She herself was busy enough, but somehow their shared downtime was primarily dictated by Bernard's schedule, Bernard's energy, Bernard's desires.
If he wanted this shot, he'd have to pay for it.
"Those are rough terms," Bernard mumbled, but he kept looking through the viewfinder, thin fingers adjusting the wheels of the camera. Galata would be spared the rapid chatter of mechanic clicks that usually marked his photography.
"Sure," he then said, filling the silence of her tactful lack of a reply.
Bernard started directing her, now committed to all that it might entail.
"Rest your chin against your shoulder, and look away... now raise your chopsticks... bare your palm, play with the moonlight."
Galata did as he asked and smiled for him.
One shot, in return for half an hour out of his day on her terms.
"Satisfied?" she asked, after he had finally pressed the button. There was no way of telling if it'd be worth the price--not until she was done with him, and the film had been developed.
