Girl in Picture Eats Peach
Imagine that, one day, you went to see an art exhibition. Perhaps your girlfriend (or boyfriend) created something to be shown there, or perhaps you wanted to take your girlfriend (or boyfriend) to see it. Now imagine your surprise as you discover that this exhibition that you had so looked forward to contains, alongside what your girlfriend (or boyfriend) might call "true art" (that is to say, incomprehensible portraits of who-knows-what on enormous sheets of canvas done in five minutes, possibly with a paintball gun, by some famous bald artist with creative facial hair), photographs. Imagine your shock!
Now let's say that, as you examine one photograph after the other and try not to show your disgust (as disgust is the prerogative of a true connoisseur of the arts such as yourself) at their lack of inherent insight, at the simplicity and the derivative, uninspired nature of the medium as a whole, you come across a picture of a girl (not your girlfriend) eating a peach. That's me, right there, and even though you can't see my eyes because I always hide them behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses, I'm looking at you. As I watch you from behind my shades, imagine the crawling spark of fear that comes to life just above your stomach, tiny but growing, that tells you I can see you but you can't see me.
As you watch me eat my peach, you might imagine how I would behave in a movie. Your girlfriend (or boyfriend) might tell you I'm eating lazily, nonchalantly, and you would of course agree with him (or her), even though you thought I was a voracious slob eating loudly like the Cookie Monster (om nom nom!) and splattering peach juice all over the place, because you know your relationship with her (or him) has been rocky because of your disagreements with him (or her) regarding the nature of "true art". And as you leave the art exposition with your boyfriend (or girlfriend), you probably won't consider what I'll do when you're gone. Will I go on break, or will I finish my peach and eat another one, or will I just stay in the same position, eating the same peach, forever? It's a moot point really, because if you come back to look at me one day, I'll still be taking a bite out of some peach, sloppily or neatly or however you imagine me doing so.
Of course, you probably won't come back. You won't see me again, for all the wrong reasons. Not because of the disgust I inspired in you, not because of the spark of crawling fear I awoke within your chest, but because your boyfriend (or girlfriend) didn't much like me, and come to think of it, you found the exhibition to be far too uninspired for your refined tastes. But imagine that one day you find the fear-spark I awoke in your chest has become active, and that you have become afraid, but can't remember why. What might you do then?