The room that she is in is the same as all the previous photograph rooms, a wall length mirror taking up the wall opposite the doorway, a fake setting – a beach this time – takes up another wall, and a small changing screen with a vanity table and trash can takes up a corner of the leftover wall space. The only other furniture is the two fake potted ferns that stand guard near the doorway, and a simple wooden bench in the unoccupied corner of the wall that shares the vanity table and mirror. The grey-eyed teen is taking off her grey shoes and white socks while sitting on the bench which she had previously pushed to the center of the mirror when the photographer enters, a young brown haired Japanese man in his mid or late teens. “Ein” stares at his brown eyes, which are taking in every aspect of the photograph room other than what he came to photograph. Her gun-smoke grey eyes travel down his worried face and black short-sleeved T-shirt to his white stick-on nametag, which reads: Reiji Azuma in black marker. She puts a lock of her cropped warm-grey hair back behind her ear and smirks as the memories of all the previous personal photographers who were fired for “indecent photographing” enter her mind. Ein then pouts as the reason for the purposefully taken photographs surfaces. “Really father… just because you took me in as a kid does not mean you rule every aspect of my life.”
“Um… is something wrong, miss Ein?” the photographer half-heartedly says with a slight frown on his face as he approaches her, his eyes finally on her.
She shakes her head as she stands up from the bench with a small “Mmm, nothing is wrong Mr. Photographer. And please, call me Eren.” It was merely a step into getting the photographer to take ‘those’ photos, having him call her by her non-star name.
The photographer observes her through the glass of the wall-length mirror as she passes him, walking towards then behind the screen. Silence and the rustle of cloth being removed is all that is heard in the room, the photographer testing the zoom of the camera on the beach scenery. Around fifteen seconds later, Eren walks out from behind the curtain, wearing nothing more than the taken-off clothes slung over her left shoulder, her two-piece frilly pink and green swimsuit trailing between the fingers of her right hand. The photographer is sitting on the bench when he looks up from the camera and sees Ein. “Ah…” says the non-blushing photographer as he looks away from her towards the door, the camera falling to the full extent of the fabric strap that is hanging from his neck. Eren moves forward, blocking his line of sight and escape from the room without passing her. Now he will take that photograph. She thinks to herself as she turns towards the photographer hands on her hips in mild-annoyance at her father and the photographer for what he would surely do in the next few seconds.
She waits for ten minutes, the room silent other than the calm breathing of its two occupants as she watches him stare up at the ceiling. “Well? Are you not going to take my photograph, Mr. Azuma, or were you hired for mere sport?” She asks him, the boredom and deafening silence driving her to speak. The 19-year-old photographer’s head and eyes lower from his intense study of the ceiling but stop until his eyes are looking dead into her own.
“I’ll take your photograph, but only after you are inside of the bathing suit.” He states with a deadpan stare.
She gives him a dead stare in return before dropping both clothes and bathing suit to the tiled floor, her hands then traveling back up her unscarred body to her boobs. If the normal approach does not work, than I need to try the sexual approach. Eren thinks, knowing fully well that her father and security were watching for any funny stuff that would get the photographer arrested and fired in the same moment. “Are you not aroused by this?” She asks him, believing that for sure now she will get a reaction from him that will prove that this photographer is like all the rest of the males Eren has encountered before, controlling, overprotective, over affectionate annoyances that she has no need for. The photographer shakes his brown mess of hair from side to side in the universal sign of no. “Hmm…. Then you are into reading porn magazines, watching old wrinkled women take showers, or into babies waving their hands and feet in your face?” For she had met such men with such habits beforehand in similar rooms in the same situation, a photographer and his target.