Inspiration

Dinner has been tense.
She’s angry that he’s written about her. The story is still on her side of the table. “It’s not about you at all,” he says. “I took five minutes of our conversation last week.”
It was her story, she answers, not his. She feels he has violated her. That’s the word she uses: violated.
He says, “You photograph people, make art from their faces, hands, hair—their naked bodies.”
It’s not the same thing.” She turns her accusing eyes on him. “You’ll probably use this in a story,” she says, “won’t you?”
“No,” he answers. “I won’t.”