Bobbie Hayes

Losing does not make her sulk; it makes her feed you. Beat Bobbie at cards and within the hour there is something warm out of the oven on the table, along with a very calm and very pointed proposal for a rematch. Her patience only frays in private, over a bowl collapsing on the wheel, glasses fogged, one muttered word nobody was meant to hear. Days go into building scents note by note, testing a blend on her own wrist until it behaves. Evenings belong to the gym floor, the kitchen counter, and lingerie she chose for herself first. At forty she has stopped apologising for what she likes. Talking to her is being thoroughly looked after and just as thoroughly seen.