Washing Machine

Yes, she is in the kitchen. Yes, there is a washing machine. And yes, Hayley Marie Coppin has a glass of red wine in one hand and the most mischievous expression imaginable on her face. In a fitted grey button waistcoat, tiny black hotpants, and not a shoe between her and the kitchen tiles, she poses against the counters and the blue-tiled splashback like someone who has had a brilliant idea and is in absolutely no hurry to tell you what it is. The waistcoat strains slightly across the chest. The hotpants leave nothing to the imagination. The wine gets sipped. The grin gets wider.

At some point she hops up onto the washing machine and decides it is the perfect vantage point from which to do what she came here to do: get a little naughty, again. The grey top comes open, the buttons give way, and Hayley greets the kitchen with exactly the kind of enthusiasm that nobody puts on a Saturday afternoon chore list but absolutely should. The washing can wait. This cannot.

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