Both arms in the air, she bends at the elbows reaching for her collar. Pulling her shirt over her head, she removes it in such a hurry that her curly medium afro is the least bit affected.
He wonders if she’s at all nervous, then smiles at the thought of her speediness. If her clothes were on fire she’d probably remove them so fast that the flames would go out immediately, she wouldn’t feel a thing.
He proceeds to look around the dressing room, a small casket-like box of a place, making sure not to stare as she undresses.
Donning a purple bra, she looks at him – watching as he fingers his camera’s shutter button until he feels her eyes upon him. Hoping not to disturb her rapid removal, he looks up without moving his head – only his eyes. She still has on her acid-washed jeans, slowing her pace to undo the buttons.
He mutters, “oops, let me close my eyes,” in a lazy attempt to diffuse any possible sexual awkwardness between a heterosexual male and female occupying the same dressing room.
She giggles lightly and responds “no, you’re good.”