She sat on the couch. Eyes closed, I couldn’t take the shot any other way. There was something so imperfectly perfect about this whole scene that made me take a few extra shots for myself. Maybe it was her smeared mascara mixed with blood. Or the drying semen on her chin.

Or maybe it was the red shirt she was wearing.

I noticed the scratch marks on her arm, signaling distress. Maybe her dog clawed her. Or she slipped and fell. Maybe her husband dug his nails for five inches down her arm. Or maybe she just brushed against a sharp branch.

The flash goes off again.

Her eyes remained closed.