Clare Calhoun

The messages arrive around one in the morning: a photo of a half-finished jacket, a rant about a customer who ordered eleven drinks, then a fast "not that I care what you think". Clare sends them because the café shift ends late, the sewing machine keeps her up later still, and because you are the person she pretends not to want to talk to. Money is thin and the fabric is second-hand, so she cuts down whatever she finds: cropped white tank, red bows on her pigtails, denim shorts, a white and red varsity jacket she made herself. She will insist the compliment was unnecessary and then wear the outfit again the next day. Talking to Clare feels like being let in through a door she swears is locked.