Page 67 of Impulse Control
“I shouldn’t have—” I started.
René stepped in close, looking over my shoulder. “No,” he said quietly. “You should have.”
“It feels… invasive.”
“It’s human.” His gaze didn’t leave the screen. “This is not cruelty. This is proof of life.”
I swallowed hard. “She looks like it hurts.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “That does not make it wrong.”
The model took a shaky breath and nodded, surprising me.
“Keep it,” she said softly. “That’s me.”
My throat tightened.
René straightened. “You saw it. You took it. Trust that.”
Something in me shifted, subtle but permanent. I didn’t delete the photo.
The night pressed on.
We were all wrung out now—models, crew, even René—but the work had changed. It was no longer about perfection. It was about catching what surfaced when no one had anything left to pretend with.
I kept shooting, kept trusting, and I began to look forward to what I would discover next.
Somewhere between one setup and the next, the frantic edge softened. The music dropped lower. The models stopped checking their reflections. Even René’s corrections grew less sharp, less constant, like the tension that had been holding everything upright was finally allowed to sag.
One by one, he began to cut people loose.
“Enough,” he said to a woman draped in silk. “Go.”
To another: “You’re done. Thank you.”
There were nods, tired smiles, a few relieved exhalations as people peeled away toward coats and quiet.
I found myself working with one of the last models still on set—a man with sharp cheekbones and the kind of confidence that peaked for most in high school. He leaned against a column, jacket open, skin catching the last of the courtyard light.
“You always look that serious when you shoot?” he asked, eyes flicking to me as I adjusted my settings.
“Only when people talk,” I replied without missing a beat.
He laughed. “Ouch.”
I took the shot anyway.
He shifted closer, angling his body toward me. “You know, you could smile. It might make me feel less like I’m being interrogated.”
“I’m not interrogating you,” I said dryly. “I’m documenting you.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
Another click.
“We get off soon,” he added casually. “If you want to?—”
“No,” I said.
