take the bloody photo

She was impatient as it appeared he was taking his sweet old worldly time setting up. The uneven black tripod, huge mirrors to bend light, blowing dust off lenses, wiping them on his sleeve like snot, making it all seem unreal and surrealistic. Plus it was frigid, and Varvara could see two cold angry eyes stare her down in hatred from a burning face. Especially when she constantly retied the scarf hiding her priceless coiffure. For her part, Varvara's eyelashes were frosted from the wind, and she dabbed her runny eyes, the sun's reflection offering no relief.
She posed with an arched back that he did not request, and they argued heatedly.
"I am the artist", he screamed. She tauntingly laughed into a relaxed heap, and with both arms extended, he pleaded with her to follow his direction.
She defiantly replied, "I must go to a real artist now, Georgia O'Keeffe, where I can survive in her naked pastels, my skin not coarsened by devils like you."
"And how will you pose?", he asked slowly, in quiet, red-faced furry, fingering the keys to the jeep in his pocket for an imagined, quick, abandonment.
Her voice lowered, resembling cold wind through a rocky crevice in uncharted country. She straightened slightly, blooming into vibrant womanhood.
"Like this!, you fool".
He twitched the shutter starting a rock slide.

photo: Charis, Lake Ediza, California(1937)
by Edward Weston