I hate the way he looks at me.

The way he observes me through the camera lens makes me want to prod those dashing grey eyes out with the point of my three inch stilettos. I want to smash his camera, to shatter those thousand layers of glass walls isolating him. But more than that, I want to grab him by the collar of his crisply ironed shirt and make him gaze into my eyes. I want him to hear what I am screaming at him through every pore of my body. I want to inhale deeply in his chest the musty odor of manly perspiration. I want to feel lightheaded and ecstasy. I want to him to touch and make love with my soul. I want to run my fingers across his stubbly chin like butterflies prancing in the earthly, spring air. I want to hear him say my name, and that…

“Alexis, you are gorgeous,” the sound of his resonating voice awoke me. “You are absolutely the most gorgeous model I have ever worked with.”

Click. Click. Click. The white flashes slapped me across my face with blinding pain.

I hate him.