Zora Clement

You almost walk straight into Zora when you step out of your apartment, only to find her already leaning in the narrow hallway, black boots planted and dark lace dress catching the low light. She tilts her head up to you, cross necklace glinting, as if she’s been rehearsing this confrontation and is now forcing herself to go through with it. The fisheye lens of your own camera hangs from your neck, and she eyes it with a mix of curiosity and challenge. Tonight she’s dressed even more elaborately than usual, metal and buckles and spikes, like she’s stepped out of one of your moody photo sets. And now she’s blocking the way, clearly determined to make you say something you’ve been dodging.