The Trouble with Being the Start Image

Mara Ellison had known that using her picture for the S.T.R.I.P. challenge might attract attention, but as she stood barefoot in the kitchen at half past eleven, still wearing the floral apron from the photograph and refreshing the blog page for what must have been the twentieth time, she had not expected the little applause counter to keep climbing with such shameless enthusiasm. “Two hundred and fourteen,” she said, trying and failing to keep the delight out of her voice. “Leonie, it’s at two hundred and fourteen.” From the other side of the kitchen island, Leonie Voss did not look up from the tablet in her hands. Mara tilted her head. “Did you hear me?” “I heard you the first twelve times.” “That is not the same as sharing my excitement.” “No,” Leonie said quietly, “it really isn’t.” Mara’s smile softened, though it did not disappear completely, because she was still riding the strange, sparkling thrill of seeing strangers praise the image: the warm kitchen, the fuzzy slippers, the mug in her hand, the teasing little story about an ordinary evening turning into something less ordinary. She had expected Leonie to roll her eyes. She had not expected silence. “What are you looking at?” Mara asked. Leonie placed the tablet flat on the counter, screen down. “Nothing.” “You are terrible at saying ‘nothing’ convincingly.” “And you are apparently very good at pretending this is all harmless.” Mara straightened. “It is harmless.” Leonie looked at her then, and there was something in her face that made the kitchen suddenly feel smaller. “Have you seen the entries?” “Some of them.” “How many?” “I don’t know. Six? Seven?” “All of them?” “Not all.” Leonie turned the tablet over and slid it across the marble. The page showed Mara’s face—or something close enough to Mara’s face to make her stomach tighten—recreated in a series of glossy images by one of the challenge participants. In the first, she still wore the apron. In the next, the cardigan was gone. In another, the kitchen had become moodier, darker, more intimate, and the figure leaning against the counter wore an expression that Mara herself had never made for any camera. Mara swallowed. Leonie tapped the screen and moved to the next entry. Different creator. Same face. Different body. Different clothes. Different fantasy. “I didn’t make those,” Mara said. “No, you only gave them the starting point.” “I gave them a picture.” “You gave them you.” “That is not fair.” “Isn’t it?” Mara drew the apron more tightly around her waist, suddenly aware of how closely her real clothing resembled the image that had started all of this. “I agreed to a challenge post,” she said. “I didn’t agree to whatever strangers imagine beyond it.” “But you knew what the challenge was.” “Yes.” “And you still said yes.” “Yes, because I thought it sounded playful, and because I liked the starting image, and because I was flattered that someone thought I could carry the whole theme.” Leonie laughed once, without humor. “Oh, I’m sure they think you carry it beautifully.” Mara’s expression hardened. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Turn this into something ugly just because you’re angry.” “I am angry.” “I noticed.” “No, Mara, I don’t think you have, because you’re standing there counting claps while people are producing image after image of my partner undressing for them.” Mara pushed the tablet away. “They are fictional images.” “They use your face.” “Approximately.” “They use enough of you.” Mara stared at her, frustration rising now, overtaking embarrassment. “What exactly do you want me to say? That I should have asked your permission?” “I wanted you to talk to me.” “I did talk to you.” “You said, ‘They want to use the kitchen picture for a blog game, isn’t that funny?’ You did not say, ‘They are going to ask strangers to progressively undress a version of me and post the results publicly.’” Mara’s eyes flashed. “Because when you say it like that, you make it sound filthy.” “Maybe because some of the entries are.” “Then be angry at the creators who crossed the line.” “I am angry at them.” “But mostly at me.” “Yes,” Leonie said, her voice breaking just enough to make Mara’s anger stumble. “Mostly at you, because they don’t owe me anything and you do.” Silence settled between them, heavy and absolute except for the refrigerator’s low hum and the faint rain beginning against the kitchen window. Mara looked down at the mug she had been holding for so long that the tea inside had gone cold. “I didn’t think you would feel betrayed,” she said. Leonie leaned back against the counter and folded her arms, though the gesture looked less defensive now than tired. “I didn’t think I would either,” she admitted. “At first I thought it was silly. Then the first entry appeared, and I thought it was a little strange but still silly. Then more came, and people started commenting about your legs, your smile, your body, what they wanted the final image to show, and suddenly it didn’t feel like a game in which I was invited to laugh with you. It felt like I was standing outside a room while everyone else looked at something that belongs to our life.” Mara’s face softened fully then. “I don’t belong to you.” “I know.” “My body doesn’t belong to you.” “I know that too.” “But our intimacy does.” Leonie looked at her. Mara set the mug down. “That is what you mean, isn’t it?” “Yes.” Mara walked around the island slowly, stopping a few feet away. “I was excited,” she said. “I am excited. I won’t lie about that. The attention feels good, and the claps feel good, and seeing people respond to the image makes me feel—” “Desired?” Mara hesitated. “Visible.” Leonie’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. “And I should have told you that,” Mara continued. “I should have admitted that it wasn’t only about helping with a challenge. I liked being chosen.” Leonie looked toward the dark window. “You could have told me.” “I was afraid you’d laugh.” “I might have teased you.” “You always tease me when I’m vain.” “Because you’re adorable when you’re vain.” Mara gave the smallest smile. Leonie tried not to return it and failed. The tension did not vanish, but it changed shape. “What do we do now?” Mara asked. Leonie reached for the tablet. “You could ask them to remove your picture.” “I could.” “You don’t want to.” “No.” Leonie exhaled through her nose. “But,” Mara added, “I can post a boundary. No explicit entries, no comments treating me like I’m available, and no sharing the images outside the challenge thread. And I can ask the organizer to remove anything that goes further than I agreed to.” Leonie studied her. “And next time?” “Next time there is no ‘isn’t this funny?’ summary.” “Full disclosure.” “Full disclosure.” “And I get to see the post before it goes live.” Mara raised an eyebrow. “Approval rights?” “Consultation rights.” “Very diplomatic.” “I am trying not to sound possessive.” “You sound extremely possessive.” “I am extremely possessive.” Mara stepped closer. “That is not always a bad thing.” Leonie’s eyes narrowed, though now with a different heat. “Do not flirt your way out of this.” “I’m not.” “You are touching the apron bow.” Mara looked down at her own hand, which had indeed drifted to the knot at her waist. “I do that when I’m nervous.” “You also do it when you know exactly what you’re doing.” “Both can be true.” Leonie reached out, caught one of the apron ties between two fingers, and held it without pulling. “You really enjoyed the attention?” Mara met her gaze. “Yes.” Leonie’s voice lowered. “More than mine?” Mara moved close enough that only the apron bow and a final inch of stubbornness remained between them. “No one’s attention feels like yours.” Leonie searched her face for mockery and found none. Then, with slow deliberation, she untied the bow. “This,” she said, “is not part of the challenge.” Mara’s breath caught as the apron loosened. “No?” “No cameras.” “Agreed.” “No audience.” “Definitely agreed.” “No applause counter.” Mara glanced toward the abandoned tablet. “I may survive.” Leonie slid the apron from Mara’s waist and folded it over her arm with exaggerated care. “And tomorrow,” she said, “you post the boundaries.” “Tomorrow.” “And tonight?” Mara smiled, no longer for strangers, no longer for a page full of claps, but for the woman standing in front of her with jealousy still bright in her eyes and love beneath it. “Tonight,” she said, taking Leonie’s hand and leading her out of the kitchen, “you remind me which audience matters most.” The kitchen light remained on behind them, illuminating the cold tea, the forgotten tablet, and the floral apron draped over a chair, while upstairs a door closed softly and the rain continued against the windows.