Chapter Text
She was pure like snowflakes
No one could ever stain
The memory of my angel
Could never cause me pain
Years go by, I’m lookin’ through a girly magazine
And there’s my homeroom angel on the pages in-between
My blood runs cold
My memory has just been sold
My angel is the centerfold
Angel is the centerfold
*
The last time Mirabel saw her tío Bruno, she has just turned five years old.
It was her birthday, and she was sick with excitement, dressed in a fancy white gown. Her cousin Camilo had turned five just a few weeks earlier, so she knew what to expect. The games, the gifts, the cake with six layers—and of course, the big family photo, with the birthday girl in the center.
That was the most important part, the photo. Abuela had a whole collection of them hanging in the backstairs hall. Every time a Madrigal turned five years old, the collection grew a little bigger. Another birthday, another family photo—another picture frame mounted on the wall.
“Come, come, come!” Abuela motioned everyone towards the camera. As Mirabel took her spot in the center, her heart began to race.
“Where’s Tío Bruno?” she asked, but nobody seemed to hear. Everyone was shuffling, getting camera-ready, straightening ties and tucking in flyaway hairs. Mirabel tugged on the nearest skirt. “Abuela, where’s Tío Bruno?”
“In a minute,” her grandmother said. She was distracted with Mirabel’s sisters, arranging them between Mamá and Papá. Isabela, the oldest, stood as tall as she was able, her chin raised and hands neatly clasped. There was no need to brush her hair, no wrinkles to smooth from her blouse. Even then, Isabela was perfect, always smiling, always poised and pristine.
Mirabel was none of these things. As Abuela turned, she pulled a comb from her pocket and raked it through Mirabel’s curls.
“Tío Bruno,” she said again. “Where is he?”
“He’s here,” Abuela answered. There was little reassurance in her voice. The comb snagged on Mirabel’s hair, pulling hard against her scalp.
She scanned the crowd. To the left, Tía Pepa was wrestling with Camilo, trying to wipe the crumbs from his face. Camilo shrieked and hid behind his sister. Tío Félix let out a laugh.
“I don’t see him,” Mirabel said, panic rising in her chest. This was her photo, her birthday photo, the one that hang on the wall forever and ever. Bruno should be here. He should be in the picture.
Abuela sighed. Gripping Mirabel by the shoulders, she turned her granddaughter towards the camera.
“Look, mi vida. There’s your uncle. Give him a big smile, alright?”
Mirabel blinked, her vision blurred by a pair of lights. They stood on long poles behind the camera, cloaking everything else in shadow. She could hardly make out Bruno’s silhouette—if Bruno was even there at all.
“Ready?” Abuela said. “Everyone, together!”
The lights flashed, and a chorus of voices rang out as one, calling their family name.
“¡La familia Madrigal!”
There must have been more after that. Gifts to open. Dinner to eat. Mirabel would have sat with her uncle, would have laughed with him and dumped her vegetables on his plate. But if she did, Mirabel doesn’t remember it. The last time she saw Tío Bruno—the last time she can remember looking for him—it was that moment, right there, printed on glossy paper and mounted in a frame. Mirabel watched her grandmother hang it on the wall, right next to Isabela’s and Luisa’s. Bruno wasn’t in their photos, either.
Next time, Mirabel told herself. Next time, we’ll take a picture. Me and him.
But by the time she turned six, he was gone.
***
More than ten years later, Mirabel stands outside an old building, trying to summon the courage to go inside.
“You got this,” she tells herself, though the sweat on her palms would suggest otherwise. She tilts her head backwards; the building isn’t very large, but it’s certainly intimidating, all brick walls and blackout windows. Standing on the street, you’d never guess the building’s true purpose—if not for the neon sign hanging above the door.
VISIONS, it says in bright, green letters. Then, in much smaller text: by Bruno.
Mirabel stares at the sign. The word VISIONS is written in capital letters, with a woman’s silhouette forming the second I. Her hips are wide; her waist, sharply tapered. Mirabel touches her own subconsciously.
“You got this,” she says again. “You got this! You just gotta… you know. You just gotta do it! No second thoughts—just go.”
She takes a deep breath. Gripping the door handle, Mirabel braces herself for a grand entrance—but the door doesn’t open.
She pulls on it again, harder this time. The door only rattles inside its frame. “Hey!”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Gaaah!”
Mirabel jumps back, startled by the sound of a woman’s voice. It comes crackling out of a silver callbox, barely audible through a burst of static.
“Visions is a private studio,” the voice says. “No public admittance.”
“I have an appointment!” Mirabel fumbles with the callbox, heart racing. None of the buttons are labeled, their faces worn away from years of use. She mashes several at once. “Hi! Hello? I- I have an appointment.”
The box crackles again. “Name?”
“Oh, um—Mirabel? I’m Mirabel. Bruno’s my—I mean, I’m his—” She shakes her head. “I’m the three o’clock model.”
There’s a long pause. Mirabel’s heartbeat drums in her ears. What if she’s not on the schedule? What if Bruno changed his mind? What if Mamá called him and said, On second thought, I forbid you from hiring my daughter. Mamá probably wouldn’t do that, but Mirabel’s stomach turns just thinking about it.
But then—
The door buzzes. There’s a loud clicking sound, like tumblers shifting inside a lock. Mirabel pulls on the door again, and this time, it swings open.
She steps into a large, impressive lobby, furnished with trendy little tables and mismatched chairs. The walls are mix plaster and exposed brick, the floor covered with overlapping rugs. It has a scavenged, secondhand sort of look to it, as if everything was found at a rummage sale, or rescued from the dumpster of a high-end shop. Mirabel’s eyebrows climb upwards, impressed with how well it all goes together, despite the fact that nothing matches at all.
At the far end of the room, a receptionist waves at Mirabel. She holds a phone to her ear, the old-fashioned kind with a cord and push buttons.
“Hola,” she says, not to Mirabel, but to whoever is on the other end of the call. “It’s me. Can you tell him that the three o’clock is here?”
Mirabel shuffles, afraid to interrupt. How much of her little pep-talk did the receptionist see? There’s gotta be a security camera pointed at the front door. She probably sat here and watched the whole thing.
“Yes, I understand. Just let him know. Thank you.”
Setting the phone aside, the receptionist finally looks up. “Mirabel?”
“Oh—” Mirabel flusters, struck by the sudden attention. The receptionist is very pretty, her hair pulled back and her eyeliner immaculate. “Yes, that’s me. I’m Mirabel.”
The woman smiles. “Welcome to Visions. I’m Pilar. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”
“Oh, um—no, that’s okay.”
Rising from her desk, Pilar directs Mirabel to a set of chairs. “Thank you for coming early. Most of your paperwork has been approved, but there are still a few forms you need to sign. Model releases and the like—nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Right,” Mirabel says. She doesn’t mention the fact that she hasn’t modeled since she was twelve, and back then, it was her parents who signed all the paperwork.
Pilar spreads the contracts across a low table. They’re pretty standard, just like she said, but Mirabel reads through them carefully. She wants to look professional, like she’s clever enough to scrutinize the fine print. Pilar doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she reads through the contracts alongside Mirabel, patiently answering her questions and showing her where to sign.
“The name of your agent goes here,” Pilar says, pointing to an empty line. Mirabel shifts in her seat.
“Oh—I don’t have one.”
“Your modeling company, then. Whoever contracted you.”
“I don’t work for a modeling company,” Mirabel says. She can feel her cheeks getting hot.
Pilar blinks. “Are you… freelance?”
“Yes!” Mirabel snaps her fingers. “Yes, that’s it. Freelance. I- I’m freelance.”
She smiles awkwardly, wishing she’d thought of the word herself. Pilar doesn’t answer. She studies Mirabel’s face for a long time, her gaze discerning.
“We don’t usually…” Pilar shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but—who hired you, exactly?”
Mirabel’s flush deepens. “Well—”
Suddenly, the door behind Pilar’s desk swings open, and a strange man stumbles into the room. He must have been walking too fast, because he trips on the corner of the rug and smashes into a file cabinet.
“Ow! Shit!”
The man hisses sharply, bending down to rub at his knee. His hair is dark and wild; his clothes, frayed at the seams. He looks completely out of place in the stylish lobby, almost as if he wandered in by accident.
Mirabel startles, surprised by the sudden interruption. Pilar, however, hardly seems to notice. With little more than a glance at the newcomer, she lifts a hand to her mouth and loudly clears her throat.
The man turns, facing them at last. His eyes go straight to Mirabel.
“There you are!” he cries. A wide grin splits his face. “Wow, look at you! I mean, your mom sent pictures, but—wow! Wow!”
The man surges forward. Realization hits Mirabel like a bolt of lightning, radiating all the way down her spine.
It can’t be.
She rises from her seat, only barely remembering to stick out her hand. The man takes it eagerly.
“Wow,” he says again. His fingers are very long; his palm, very wide. Mirabel feels dizzy. Her thoughts won’t settle.
Bruno.
It’s Bruno.
Bruno, who played dress-up in the attic.
Bruno, who built sandcastles at the park.
Bruno, who memorized the names of Mirabel’s dolls, and told her stories at bedtime.
She takes in his unshaven face, his large, expressive eyes. They’re a lot more green than she remembered; his hair, a lot more grey. His unruly curls are pulled back into a ponytail, though a few loose strands hang limp around his face. He looks disheveled but happy, smiling despite the dark circles under his eyes. Mirabel suddenly remembers how he used to stay up all night watching telenovelas, and how she would find him there in the morning, passed out on the couch.
“Hi,” she says belatedly. The word feels strange in her mouth. There should be a different one, some special greeting for people you haven’t seen in a long time. Hi just feels too normal. Too unextraordinary.
Bruno’s smile softens. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to respond, but then his eyes drop to their joined hands. “You’re very sweaty,” he observes.
Mirabel blinks. “What? …oh!”
She pulls from Bruno’s grip, hastily wiping her hands on her blouse. She laughs awkwardly. “Sorry! Sorry, that’s really gross—”
“No, it’s fine!” Bruno insists. “I shouldn’t have… You look great. Really. It’s, um… It’s good to see you!”
“Thanks,” Mirabel says, even though he’s just being polite. She can feel the sweat under her arms; all the flyaway hairs on her head. She resists the urge to smooth them out. “It’s nice to see you, too. You look… different.”
“Do I?” Bruno looks down, taking in his worn-out clothes, the grease stains on his shirt. He never would have gotten away with such an outfit back home; Abuela would have made him change. “Yeah, I guess I do. I’m probably not as tall as you remembered, huh?”
Mirabel laughs, despite herself. No—he’s definitely not. Bruno makes a show of standing on his tip-toes, but even then, he’s only a few inches taller than Mirabel. It’s kind of funny—when she was a kid, she would have sworn he was seven feet tall.
“Oh, Pilar!” Bruno turns, as if he just noticed her. “Pilar, hey! How’s the, um… How’s the paperwork? We all set?”
Pilar is standing now, watching them with obvious amusement. Her brows arch when Bruno says her name.
“We’re all set,” she echoes. A knowing smile tugs at her lips. “Unless you’d like to introduce me to your daughter.”
Bruno sputters. “What?! Oh, no, she’s not—”
“I’m his niece,” Mirabel says quickly. Her face couldn’t possibly get any redder. “Sorry, I thought Bruno would have mentioned it.”
“I did!” Bruno cries. “Or—I meant to, at least.” He waves his hands dismissively. “Listen, it’s been a busy week.”
Pilar snorts. She looks bemused, but not surprised, as if she’s used to Bruno making unusual decisions. Crossing her arms, she says, “I thought her last name was a coincidence. I should have known you’d find some weird, new angle to exploit—”
“It’s not like that!” Bruno says. “Mirabel came to me. She’s a student at the university—fashion major, right? She wants to work in the industry someday, so… I’m helping her gain some real-world experience.”
“Right,” Mirabel says. Experience, that’s why she’s here. To gain a foothold in the fashion industry. A head start on her career.
Pilar gives him an odd look. She seems doubtful, like there has to be more to the story than simple nepotism. With a glance at Mirabel, she leans close to Bruno. “Does she know what kind of studio this is?”
Again, Bruno flusters. “Of course she does!”
They stare at each other for a long moment, communicating through facial expressions alone. For the second time, Mirabel shuffles on the sidelines, feeling small and out of place.
In the end, though, Pilar only shrugs.
“Well, she’ll get a lot of experience here.”
***
Once the paperwork is signed and filed, Bruno leads Mirabel into the hall. She follows just a few paces behind him, footsteps soft on the concrete floor.
Bruno glances over his shoulder. “Sorry about all that. I meant to tell everyone about you. About us being related, I mean. Things have just been so crazy this week…”
“It’s okay,” Mirabel replies. Things have been pretty crazy for her, too. Between moving to the city, starting school and searching for a job, the last two months have been… a lot. “I’m just glad you found a minute to come and welcome me.”
Bruno looks surprised. “Of course! Your mom made me promise to look out for you. That was one of her big stipulations.”
He waves his hands around the last two words, emphasizing their importance. Mirabel smiles to herself. She wasn’t on the call when Mamá spoke to Bruno, but she can imagine her mother using that exact phrase. Big stipulations. Caveats and conditions. The Do’s and Don’ts of Hiring My Daughter.
She can’t imagine what Bruno would have said, though. She doesn’t know him well enough.
Mirabel used to ask about Bruno a lot, when she was little. Where he’d gone. Why he left. No one at home liked to talk about it—his absence was kind of a sore spot, the kind of thing only ever mentioned in whispers. The most that Mirabel could get out of her parents was that Bruno had left to “pursue his art.” That wasn’t a lie, exactly—but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. She didn’t learn what Bruno’s “art” really was until much, much later.
They come to an elevator. Like almost everything else, it looks a century out if date, creaking loudly as they step inside.
“So, um… How long’s it been?” Bruno asks, piling in alongside Mirabel. “Ten, eleven years?”
“Thirteen, actually,” Mirabel replies. She was five when he left, so… yeah, the math checks out.
“Thirteen?” Bruno says. “God, I’m old.”
He presses a button, and the elevator lurches. It’s definitely not the safest feeling in the world, but luckily, they don’t have to go very far. The studio only has two floors; an upstairs and a downstairs.
“I can’t believe how grown up you are,” Bruno says. “All of you! Your cousins, your sisters—oh, hey, is Isabela still living in that tiny apartment? I haven’t checked up on her since… ever.”
Mirabel shakes her head. “No, actually—we’re all living together now. Her and me and Luisa. We got a bigger place—not a lot bigger but, you know… Saves on rent.”
She shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but the truth is, she loves having something to brag about. A new apartment, a new life—it’s like, maybe if she pretends that she’s got it all figured out, things will finally start falling into place.
“Did you hear about Camilo?” she asks. “He’s in the city now, too. Theater major, over at the art school.”
“No kidding?” Bruno’s eyebrows arch with amusement. “Yeah, that makes sense. He was always so dramatic, putting on those little plays—and you did the costumes, right?”
Mirabel startles a little. She’d completely forgotten about that. Wow… She and Camilo haven’t put on a play in years.
Bruno smiles to himself. “You loved playing dress-up. And making outfits for your dolls… I should have guessed you’d go into fashion design.”
The elevator rumbles, slowing to a halt. As the door slides open, a blast of hot air hits Mirabel in the face. The smell of sweat fills her nose; the smell of a photo studio, of slick skin and sweltering lights.
They head down another hallway, this one a lot more crowded than the first. Mirabel sticks close to Bruno, winding her way around crewmembers and wooden crates and large, industrial fans.
“Hey boss.”
A man in a simple white shirt walks by, followed by a woman in a short, silk robe. She must be another model; her feet are slippered and her hair is messily styled, as if she just rolled out of someone else’s bed. She hasn’t bothered to tie her robe in the front, giving Mirabel a good look at the outfit underneath: a lacey black bra and panties, and literally nothing else.
Mirabel flusters. Through open doorways, she can see photoshoots already in progress; photographers with their fancy cameras; tech crew managing switchboards and lights. Models in various states of undress, draped over pillows and blankets and chairs. Her heartbeat quickens at the sight of so many naked bodies, the thought of being so shamelessly exposed.
Bruno motions excitedly. “Here we are!”
They step into a large room. Here, too, the tech crew are running around, unwinding spools of wire and plugging in lights. Like Pilar, they hardly seem to notice when Bruno strides in, far too focused on their tasks.
Mirabel hangs back, taking it all in. At the far end of the room, a raised platform creates a sort of stage, no doubt in preparation for her photoshoot. Covered in a blanket of fake grass, the stage looks something like a garden, complete with rosebushes and a charming white picket fence. A crewmember kneels before it, winding ivy through the posts.
“Hang on, hang on!” Bruno waves for the flower man’s attention. “What, um- What- What am I looking at?”
The man looks at his flowers, then back to Bruno. “Um… roses?”
“Roses?”
Bruno frowns at that, clearly distressed. The man rises, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“You don’t like roses, boss?”
“I like them fine, they’re just… They’re not what I pictured.”
Bruno folds his arms, frowning at the garden like a puzzle to be solved. The man shrugs.
“You said you wanted romance.”
“Pastoral romance,” Bruno says. “You know—rolling hills! Milk maids! Cows and sheep.”
Mirabel’s brows arch upwards. Cows and sheep?
“It should look rustic. Like a farmer’s field. There should be daisies, and- and, um—”
“Clover?” the man suggests. “Baby’s breath?”
“Yes!” Bruno snaps his fingers. “Yes, that’s perfect!”
With a slap on Bruno’s shoulder, the flower man hurries off. Bruno turns to Mirabel, smiling with relief.
“That’s Eduardo,” he says, jabbing a thumb in the other man’s direction. “He’s in charge of set design. He helps me take what I see up here,” he motions vaguely to his forehead, “and put it there.”
Bruno points out the rest of the team, telling Mirabel who they are and what they do. The man and woman in the corner are his best lighting duo—and back there is the dressing room, where she’ll meet the hair and makeup artists. Mirabel nods along, trying not to look overwhelmed.
“Is that my photographer?” She tilts her chin towards the back of the room, where a young man is sorting camera lenses. Bruno follows her gaze.
“Huh?”
“Over there. With the camera.”
“Oh!” He lets out a short, surprised laugh. “No, that’s not the photographer. I am.”
“What?”
Mirabel turns. She didn’t hear that right. She thought he said—but Bruno wouldn’t—there’s no way—
“I’m the photographer,” Bruno says again.
There’s a long pause. A very, very long pause.
“Is… Is that okay?” Bruno asks, and Mirabel realizes that her mouth is hanging open. She closes it quickly, but it’s too late. Bruno’s forehead knits with concern.
“Um… Y-Yeah. Yeah!” She shakes her head, clearing it of a thousand different thoughts. “That’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t—”
“Are you sure?” Bruno takes a step closer, his voice low enough not to be overheard. Mirabel finds herself intensely aware of the people moving around them, the sound of footsteps, of chairs and tripods dragging across the ground. She wets her lip.
“Yeah,” she says again. “I’m just… surprised, that’s all. I mean, I’m gonna be… you know…”
Naked. Or, mostly naked. She assumed her uncle would want to be very far away. When he came to greet her in the lobby, she thought that he was fulfilling an obligation to Mamá—not that he was gonna stay for the photoshoot.
Bruno rubs the back of his neck. “Well, yeah, but… I told your mom I’d look out for you. And I kind of thought… I dunno…” He lifts his shoulders and let them drop. “I thought you’d be more comfortable with me than a stranger.”
He looks at her sheepishly, the way someone does when they realize a mistake. “Maybe that’s weird…”
“No, I— I get it,” Mirabel says. She feels warm all over, limbs tingling with excitement. Now that the shock has worn off, she finds herself unexpectedly eager. She hadn’t realized how badly she wanted Bruno to stay, how reassuring his presence would be.
“You’re right,” she tells him. “I’d rather do this with someone I know. Even if that someone is my uncle.”
She smiles playfully, but Bruno still isn’t convinced. He opens his mouth to say something, but just then, one of the makeup artists calls out from the dressing room.
“Hey, boss? We’re ready for her.”
“In a minute!” Bruno replies. Then, with a sigh, “Listen—”
“Tío, it’s fine,” Mirabel says. She takes his hand and squeezes it. “I want it to be you! Who else could take better care of me?”
Bruno looks down at their joined hands, surprise written on his face. “W-Well… If you’re sure…”
“Of course I’m sure!” Mirabel says, already turning towards the dressing room. She shoots a grin over her shoulder. “Come on! This is gonna be fun!”
***
Half an hour later, Mirabel emerges from the dressing room. Beside a change of wardrobe, not much has been done to her; her curls hang loose, and her makeup is very lightly applied. Apparently, Bruno wanted her to look “natural”—and after seeing the outfit, she understands why.
Mirabel holds her robe closed as she pads over the stage. Bruno is already there, overseeing the final adjustments. With just a few handfuls of lavender, some white daisies and baby’s breath, Eduardo has transformed the garden into an idyllic pasture. Bruno claps him on the back, delighted.
“Mirabel, hey!” He smiles at her approach. Now that his vision is coming together, he seems to have regained his excitement. He drums on the large, expensive-looking camera hanging around his neck. “Are you ready?”
“Only if you are,” Mirabel replies.
As she pulls off her robe, heat rises to her cheeks once more. In keeping with the pasture theme, she’s dressed in black-and-white spotted underwear, with matching stockings that stretch all the way up to her knees. There’s even a headband with triangular ears and horns, and a short, tufted tail swinging between her legs.
She’s a cow. A nearly naked, lingerie-wearing cow.
“Well?” Mirabel turns in place, showing off her spotted undies, her knee-high stockings. The little tail swishes back and forth. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re perfect,” Bruno says. His eyes are very bright.
He reaches out to adjust her headband. It must have been crooked in her hair. His hands slip lower, as if to adjust her top as well—but he hesitates.
“May I?”
“Oh…” Mirabel looks down at her chest, barely covered by the spotted bra. “Y-Yeah, go ahead.”
His touch is firm. Professional. He tugs at the thin straps around her neck, fingers ghosting over her collarbone. As he works, Bruno mutters something about the fit, the color, treating her more like a work of art than a niece.
“I, um…” Her voice is soft. She swallows and tries again. “I brought contact lenses, but the makeup team said I wouldn’t need them.”
“Hm?” Bruno looks up, as if rousing from his own thoughts. It takes a moment for Mirabel’s words to sink in. “Oh, yes! Your glasses are critical. They suit your face so well—it really completes the look.”
He takes a step backwards, framing Mirabel between his fingers. She’s wearing the same glasses she always has; green, with wide, circular lenses. Bruno smiles with one eye closed.
“You’re perfect,” he says again.
Mirabel climbs onstage. She feels very aware of her own body, of the sweat on her skin and the sway of her breasts. She settles down between the wildflowers, conscious of the fake grass brushing against her thighs.
“Oh, wow.” Bruno lifts the camera to his face and snaps a picture. Mirabel’s heart races—she wasn’t ready!
The camera clicks again, and again. Mirabel shifts around, unsure of how to pose, or what to do. How is she supposed to make a cow look sexy?
“How, um… How do you want me to…?”
“Whatever feels good,” Bruno says. The camera never leaves his face.
Mirabel shifts again, trying out a few different poses. She tries to look sultry, like the other models. Pouty lips. Pushed-up breasts. Nothing really feels right.
“Don’t take it too seriously,” Bruno tells her. “You can moo if you want to.”
Mirabel glances upwards. The lights around Bruno are all but blinding, casting the rest of the room in shadow. She can’t see anyone else, but she can feel them out there, watching. Waiting.
“Moo?” she asks.
“Yeah, you know—”
Mirabel jumps as her uncle lets out a loud, comical moo. The sound carries, echoing through the darkened room. A few crewmembers chuckle.
Mirabel’s face gets even hotter. “I don’t—”
Bruno moos again, louder this time. It’s so ridiculous that Mirabel can’t help but laugh.
“Yeah, that’s it!” The camera clicks. “Have fun with it! You’re dressed like a cow, for fuck’s sake!”
Mirabel laughs again, her embarrassment ebbing. This is the Bruno she remembers, the silly uncle who made up stories and chased her around the park.
Things are easier after that. Or at least, a little more relaxed. Bruno makes a game of it, calling for various props. Every now and again, he gives Mirabel something new to pose with; a brass cowbell; a wooden stool and pail; a flower crown, woven with daisies.
She gets really into it, trying out wild poses and giggling more than she should. Bruno’s playful attitude makes it easy to laugh, to mess around without fear of looking ridiculous. It almost feels like playing dress-up at home, like when she was younger and she and Bruno would put on crazy outfits and play pretend. She quickly forgets how naked she is, how many people are watching.
“Beautiful!” Bruno says, snapping picture after picture. “¡Qué hermosa! You’re doing great, just like that—”
Mirabel drapes the flower crown over her head, letting it hang lopsided in her curls. Lying down on her stomach, she props herself up on both elbows, breasts perfectly framed between her arms.
Bruno swears under his breath. He takes a step closer; Mirabel can see herself reflected in the camera lens. The shutter dilates, like a pupil. She can feel Bruno’s eyes roaming over her body, drinking her in.
“Perfect,” he whispers, and the camera clicks. The word shivers through her, tingling down her spine.
Later, when the photoshoot is over and the lights have come back on, Bruno looks over the photographs on his laptop. Mirabel stands behind him, silk robe pulled over her cow-print undies.
“Oh, wow! Is that really me?!”
Even raw and unedited, Bruno’s skill with a camera is obvious. Somehow, he made Mirabel look sweet and innocent, but alluring as well, smiling at them from a bed of flowers. It’s like she’s inviting the viewer to lie down beside her, to roll in the grass and frolic in the field, naked as the day they were born.
“Tío, these are great!” Mirabel bounces on her toes, full of excited energy. “You made me look so hot!”
Bruno snorts. “You are hot.”
For a long moment, his compliment hangs in the air. Bruno’s eyes go wide as he realizes what he said.
“I- I mean—! You look good in the photos, that’s all—”
He’s so flustered, Mirabel can’t help but giggle. “It’s fine, Tío. Thanks. I had a lot of fun today! This could have been really weird, but you made it great.”
A hopeful smile pulls at Bruno’s mouth.
“Glad I could help,” he tells her. “And, hey… If you ever want to do something like this again…”
Mirabel’s brows shoot upwards. “You mean, another photoshoot?!”
“Why not?” Bruno says. He doesn’t sound half as indifferent as his shrug would imply. “We could expand your portfolio. Get you in touch with other studios. Or, shit, if you just wanted another paycheck…” He searches Mirabel’s face. “Is that something you’d be interested in?”
Mirabel’s smile widens. She wants to throw her arms around Bruno, and squeeze him like when she was little. She barely holds herself back.
“Only if you’ll be my photographer,” she replies.