Pose

Chapter One: Bulges and Photographers

"Blue jeans, white shirt, walked into the room, you know you made my eyes burn." - Lana Del Rey, Blue Jeans

(Corrine’s Point of View)

         “It’s fine.” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose to ward off the coming headache.

         “It’s just that we’ve been trying to get this deal for a very—“

        I stopped my husband mid-speech. “I understand. It’s completely…fine. Look, I need to go to the gallery and make sure everything is ready. We’ll talk later.”

        I heard his small sigh. “Okay, Corrine. Goodbye.”

        “Goodbye.” I hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed.

        Sometimes, I wonder why I ever married Jason. Then I remember that he was the son of one of my father’s friends. And that our parents’ businesses were related somehow. I actually sucked when it came to anything business related. Ironic, considering I married a man who seems to have a mistress called Business. Oh, I’m straying off topic, again. Shit. Anyway, we met when we were both seventeen and seemed to be two total opposites. We weren’t attracted to each other, and we barely agreed on anything at all. Our parents, however, did. I don’t know how it happened, but a few years later on one night they suggested marriage. I smiled and laughed at the prospect. And then, so quickly I could barely believe it, there I was walking down an aisle.

        I didn’t mind. At the time, on some level, I thought I loved Jason. I thought some TLC would get him to shed the cold exterior. I thought that with time I would be able to find the man on the inside. My God, I was so wrong.

        Fast forward a few years and here I am, twenty-seven, lonely as hell, sprawled over a huge bed that my own husband has yet to join me in for the past two months, and staring at a blank ceiling.

        I haven’t seen Jason in two months. This is the first time I speak to him in a week. He’s in…Shanghai? He was supposed to arrive tonight and be there with me tomorrow at the opening of my gallery. But of course, work comes first. Always comes first.

         I sit up on the bed and grab the camera that’s on the bedside table. I hold it up and try to take an abstract picture of anything. Nothing close enough or interesting. I get up and move to the dresser. I set the lense of the camera on the edge and take a random picture of everything on top of it. I look at the picture of cosmetics and perfumes and make a face. Such a shitty picture. Oh well.

        How they call me the genius behind all the magazine pictures and book covers I make is beyond my knowledge. How I got a gallery in my name is beyond my knowledge. I have a feeling my boss has something to do with it all. She seemed to be mesmerized by everything I take. I don’t understand the fascination.

        I grab my bag and leave my room. In the kitchen, I find our chef, Gretchen, baking.

        “I see you got bored again.” I tease her. She tried new recipes whenever she got bored which left the fridge full with a lot of food. In case she ever left, I’d survive a week without needing to make anything just because of that alone.

        She looks up at me and smiles. She was a stunner in her mid-forties and her heart went right along with her beauty.

        She tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear and I tensed knowing that she was about to ask me something.

        “Did something happen?” She asked.

        “Why do you ask?” I answer her question with a question with a cool disinterest I’ve developed over the last few years. Sadly, that didn’t work on her.