The Settle Point
Reclaiming yourself is a revolutionary act
(Editor’s note: This essay contains nude photos)
I ’m in the bathroom of the Airbnb putting on mascara when M, the photographer, arrives. I can hear her talking to J, the man I’m seeing, like they’ve known each other forever, which they have. I can hear the ease in their voices as they murmur to each other, the mention of the names I don’t know, the quick, habitual laughter that only happens between friends. I listen for a minute, my ear to the door. I look at myself in the mirror again, standing in my bra and panties, as if there’s anything I can do now about how I look, as if there’s any chance of getting out of this.
No backing out, I whisper to my reflection. You’re fucking doing this.
I open the door, pop my head out.
Hi, I say. Nice to meet you.
You too, says M. She has an easy smile, one that doesn’t hide her teeth, and she’s dressed in workout clothes. I like her immediately. She looks like the kind of person I’d be friends with, and so I decide I will be. She scans the small basement room, clucking her tongue about the lighting, which is limited to a few bedside lamps. She fiddles with something on her camera and whispers to J, who nods. He has experience with this. He smiles at me, and I smile back. I can’t…
