His passionate rant of the night before had eventually led to passionate lovemaking, their pent-up emotions—guilt, pity, suspicion, frustration—finding physical expression. “What are you doing today?” she asked, flipping open her appointment book. She was ready to take sitters again and needed to make calls and update her agenda. “Do you know Willie Seabrook?” he asked. She marked her page with a bobby pin and sat back down on the mattress; the answer to her question was clearly not a short one. “Seabrook.” She scrunched her mouth to one side, thinking; she’d never been very good with names. “Why does that sound so familiar?” “I’ve got some of his books at my studio. He spends a year or so in far-off places, living with the primitives—Bedouins, cannibals, voodoo worshipers—and then he writes about it.” “That’s right. I read an article about him in the Herald Tribune. Didn’t he say human flesh tasted like veal cutlets?” “He says all kinds of outrageous things.”
What do You think about The Woman In The Photograph?
