“This place is creepy.”

“That’s the point, Sue.”

“Then why am I wearing a prom dress?”

“It’s a juxtaposition, the beat down house with the fancy outfit. Try standing more towards the window.”

“The one with no glass in it?”

“Yes, Sue.”

“If I’m a just-o-position, why the messed up make-up and slicked back hair?”

“That’s a commentary on post-Suburban sprawl middle class ennui. Try looking more forelorn.”

“How’s this?”

“Jeez, Sue, now you just look pissed.”

“Bingo.”

“You’re the one who volunteered to help with my photo assignment, Sue.”

“You’re the one who’s going to pay me fifty bucks and take me out to dinner.”

“Right, right. Wait, the dinner was only if you agreed to nudes.”

“I think wearing a formal gown in a bombed out shack in a late February chill is equivalent to naked.”

“This place has never been bombed, Sue.”

“Smells like it has.”

“Try arching your back a little more, with your arm up at an angle…perfect!”

“You’re dodging the question.”

“You’re fully clothed.”

“You’re a dick.”