I am obsessed with rhyming titles. And, apparently, photoshoots.

"Do you love her?” Do you love me? You think the question; pray it in your mind, as you look up at him, the towering mass of him. He smiles sweetly, pulls you closer, prepared for the flashing of another bulb. “No, no, you must love her,” the photographer insists sternly, and you look away, close your eyes as you watch the ground, try to feel shy and coy but with him? It isn’t all that hard, and you don’t know if you want to act out the masquerade or if you want to be it. “Days with your hand on her hip, nights with your fingers tracing her spine. Do you remember them? Remember!”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in your ear as he bends down, his wide hand gripping your hip and waist, pulling you ever closer to his warmth and heat. His nose presses against your hair, breathing you in, shaky and unsure beside your ear; a disaster film waiting to strike, a horror movie ready to terrify, a romance film ready to enamor.

His hands are warm; his whole body is, every inch of his flesh pressed against your side, a cat in mouse chase for the camera, merely for thrills, that you insist to keep running from, for him to keep following. But he doesn’t get the message, you don’t think he ever will, but he’s breathing in your ear, shaking hesitant breaths that make you want to just turn and kiss him, kiss him with everything you have, make him love you. But you don’t, merely watch the ground, the blush rising on her bared flesh not your own, not the makeup artists, not anyone’s but his.

“Remember the night in Paris, hmm? The night you were engaged?” You shudder as his hand stops firmly at the top of your ribcage, his fingertips spreading just to the swell of your breast, and you know he’s stopped not because he’s wanted to, but because he remembers, remembers the night he had had in Paris. The night he was engaged, the night he had the world on his back and it was such an easy load for this strong Atlas. But you remember his name in a gossip column, not long ago, a broken engagement, a strangled life, and you turn, just to catch him before he falls, just to tell him to keep up the masque of confidence, of clarity, of wanting you so desperately.

“Don’t be,” you murmur, a response to his early words and a response to him now, your palm spreading up over his chest to tremble over his expanse of shoulder. You tilt your head, try to look him in the eye and try to look past him, make him remember it’s a charade that the two of you are acting out, a dance to waltz to and remember in four days time and nothing more. But when you turn your face away from his, so demure, it is not an act, an urging from the photographer, of his open lips tracing over your cheekbone and simply breathing in an essence, a moment of something more.

“Yes!” The photographer crows, capturing the naked moment where he is real and you are not but you are, you are around him and you’ve been the whole time, “That is exactly what I needed! Wonderful, beautiful, thank you, more, more!” You pull just far enough away to crane your neck up to look at him, the beautiful man you stand on a box beside in six inch heels, the man who is protecting you and yet leaving you wide open. His eyes are twinkling with an emotion you cannot place; mischief? Fallacy? Was he being cavalier? But no, no, as his hand once more reaches for you, hand warm enough to be suffocating and warm enough to bring you in, reaches out to touch your fingertips, palm against palm in a movement so intimate you could blush and sigh.

It is an act, you tell yourself, firm, as his one hand holds you close and his other slowly twirls you, fingers folding in your skirt as you go, a music box with no music and far more sound, far more soul. But, as you let out a laugh, hearing his echo in return, genuine and pure, if it is a masquerade, simply a show, you will continue on until the curtain falls.