“I don’t—” she stammered. It was hard for her to find words. She was oppressively tired, and her brain felt like it was turning into soup. Time is white. “I don’t think so.” The last person to see her breasts was Arthur. He didn’t make her feel funny the way Mr. Saito suddenly did; he didn’t look at her to see if she met his expectations. Then again, Mr. Saito was an ambassador to “corporate” and readers of the magazine. In that moment Mr. Saito wasn’t just one man, he was all men, and she wasn’t a woman but a product. Shouldn’t Sherri let him take a look? Did she measure up? Was her body magazine-worthy?

“These aren’t the kinds of photos your boyfriend would take of you in his basement,” Ron said.

“This is high concept,” said Mr. Saito. “Real art. You could hang these photos in a gallery in SoHo. Your top,” he said, raising his finger. He seemed so focused and important, so busy. She didn’t have the confidence to say no, even though something was off.

Ron came over and pinched the hem of her shirt with his fingers. “Here, let me help you.” She could push him away. She could run for it. And if she didn’t feel like she had molasses running through her veins, she might have. “I can get it myself,” she said, slurring her words.

“There we go. There’s my girl.” That was what Sam had said to her, and again it made her feel dirty.

It was one thing to expose her shoulders at work, another to bare her breasts. Sherri wondered if she was pretty enough, if her big breasts were the right shape and size.

“You are a work of art, Shelly.”

“Sherri,” she said. She heard the plodding bass line of Handel’s chaconne. Her mother had said the bass line was often the walking part of music, moving the piece along, step by step. Each step grew longer, heavier.

Mr. Saito took more photos, then he set his camera down and frowned. He asked Ron for the plastic cup he was holding, walked closer to her, and pulled out an ice cube and set one on her nipple. She jumped. The cold shocked her, but not as much as the feeling of his hands on her breasts and the thought that she ought to do that herself. She felt angry and powerless. Her body was no longer her own, but had it ever been? He stepped away before she could push him. “Now we’ve got some raspberries. Yum, yum.” He stepped back. “Arch your back, kitten,” Ron said. “Push out those titties.”