Aubrey never stopped moving, finding new ways to aim and point the lens. Every so often, they would say, almost embarrassed, some command to the two of them, and the two of them would reposition their bodies. Aubrey had them hug, had Nico cover Marina’s face with his hands, had Marina place her hands on his chest, his waist, his thighs. The first few touches had the same electric charge as before, but gradually it faded. Eventually, Aubrey stopped issuing commands and the two of them just moved on their own, touching each other experimentally, almost without emotion.

“You guys are great at this,” Aubrey said admiringly. Marina turned and saw that they weren’t taking any more pictures. “God, just looking at the raw images here — I really think most of those are gonna be really good.”

“I hope you got one of that moment with all that hand-face stuff,” Nico said, sounding amused. “I feel like some of those are gonna be really weird. You have to send us these when they’re done.”

“Yeah, totally,” Aubrey said, tossing Nico’s t-shirt and Marina’s dress and bra back onto the bed. Nico sat up and slipped the shirt on in one elegant movement. Marina remained lying facedown. Her head was spinning again.

“Cool. I’m leaving, Nicki. I’m kinda wired, so maybe I’ll edit these tonight.”

“Bye Aub,” Nico said, not looking up.

“Wanna go back out on the roof?” Marina said, after the door closed and she had started buttoning her dress.

“You read my mind,” Nico said.

♒

He wordlessly handed her his jacket and they climbed back through the window. The night air had become colder and she was suddenly herself again, and Nico was just Nico, a pretty stranger. There had been a moment where it seemed like — whatever.

Across the street, lights were on. Her eyes lingered on an arched window covered with a thin lace curtain. Through it, she could see the shadowy outline of a person behind a laptop and the vague shapes of furniture. They made small talk. She asked him questions about the gallery and about the art world, and he rambled digressively. At one point he put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned ever so slightly, felt his protruding ribs nudge against hers.

“You’re nice,” she said drowsily into his shoulder. He was midsentence and cut himself off and sort of awkwardly stroked her other shoulder, bare and exposed to the cold night air where it was slipping out of the dress, which she had put back on hastily.

He stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it over the edge into the empty street. “I’m cold,” he said abruptly. “Want to go back in?”