Milk

Hayley Marie Coppin is wearing something she would never be seen in on the street, and that is entirely the point. She fills the full length of a black PVC catsuit that runs from wrist to ankle and zips from the floor all the way to her throat, her warm auburn bob and full red-painted fringe framing a face that is equal parts innocent and devastating as she settles onto the bare wooden stairs of a white-walled loft and brings a white milk bottle slowly to her red lips. The cool northern light of the room falls without mercy on every seam and curve of the glossy black suit, and she rolls the bottle down her cheek and along her collarbone with the unhurried certainty of someone who is in complete control of every single thing that is about to happen.

The zip begins to move. It travels one slow inch at a time until her chest is bare inside the opened suit, and she tilts the milk bottle and pours it directly over herself with her red lips parted and her eyes half-closed. White rivulets run down her skin and pool on the wooden stairs beneath her, and she lowers herself onto all fours to press her lips to the wet wood before peeling the catsuit down past her hips and off entirely. She stands by the window in just her black heels, bottle in hand, bare and extraordinary in the pale light. Our little secret, she said. And it is one worth keeping.

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