A fisheye-lens shot taken from floor level inside a crowded elevator, the curved glass of the doors and chrome walls warping around the edges of the frame. Two women stand in the center, making the cramped space their stage. One has an athletic hourglass build, a narrow waist, powerful thighs and a full chest, her striking feature a long surgical scar along her collarbone that she shows off proudly in a backless halter jumpsuit the color of burnt orange. The other leans against the elevator rail, legs crossed at the ankle, hourglass curves emphasized by a clingy ribbed midi dress with a neckline cut down to her sternum, her defining feature is a wild mane of tightly coiled silver-grey hair despite her young face. The woman in orange presses the "door close" button with one thumb while looking directly into the camera, lips pursed in a teasing pout, her friend laughs with her head thrown back, one hand flat on the other's stomach, fingers spread wide. Cold elevator light mixes with warm hallway light spilling in through the closing doors, motion blur on the doors, reflections doubling their figures in the chrome — playful, mischievous, a frozen second of shared conspiracy.