Natalie Palmer strips slowly on her bed

Natalie Palmer sets herself up on an unmade bed, a soft open robe slipping off one shoulder while she works out of what is left of it. The strip is brief and casual, and then her hands stay put: attention turning inward, eyes flicking now and then to the chat scrolling somewhere off to the side.

Small bedrooms flatter this sort of broadcast. Lamplight picks out the ink along her arm and thigh, the bedding creases under her, and the solo play keeps the loose, half-distracted rhythm of a woman doing it mainly for herself.