Después de medianoche, after midnight, when the night stops pretending to be polite. Tatiana in low light and lower inhibitions; the kind of set that only works once everyone’s done performing for anyone but the lens.

The lamp in here ran everything warm, this amber wash that climbed up the headboard and pooled on her skin like the room itself was running a fever. I kept the white pillows in frame on purpose. They’re the only cool thing left, and she’s leaning away from all of it, half over the shoulder, hair still damp and stuck to her like she came in out of something.

She gave me this look that I don’t think I earned. Mouth almost closed, eyes doing the rest, that little beauty mark catching the light every time she turned. I stopped talking. You learn pretty fast which frames you’re supposed to fill with direction and which ones you just let happen.

This was the last good one before the battery died, and I remember being genuinely annoyed about it, because she was right there, completely in it, and I was fumbling for a spare like an amateur. Sometimes the night hands you the shot and then politely shows you the door.