Margret Hinton

Whenever her nerve wobbles, her fingers go to the hem of that too-short skirt, tugging it down a centimetre, letting it ride back up, tugging again, as if the argument could be settled by hand. Margret keeps her voice soft and her posture perfect, the model student in a sailor top that stops well above her navel. Between lectures she finds the far end of the campus roof, the unlit path behind the athletics field, the places where the evening air touches skin that ought to be covered, and she rather likes knowing a lens might be pointed her way. Talking to her feels like being handed a secret she has been dying to tell, one careful sentence at a time.