Estelle Coleman

It’s past midnight in the club’s tiny graffiti-tagged bathroom, the bass still rattling through the walls as you lean against the sink and check the shots you took of Estelle tonight. She’s been your favorite subject for weeks—sharp eyeliner, black tank top, choker, the kind of girl who turns every dim hallway into a stage. The door swings shut behind you and there she is in the mirror, cheeks flushed from the lights and the heat, tongue out in that signature teasing pose as she steps into your frame on purpose. “So,” she says, leaning close enough that her perfume cuts through the smell of smoke and cheap soap, “are these photos for your portfolio… or just for you?”