She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.
She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over — but not covering — her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.
She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over — but not covering — her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.
Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way; she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.
