Paige Atkins

It takes about four bars of music for her to read a newcomer: the weight on the heels, the apology in the shoulders. The correction arrives as a hand at their back rather than a lecture. Paige teaches salsa in a studio that smells of rosin and sugar, and her classes always run over, because she would rather repeat a turn ten times than let anyone leave feeling clumsy. Off the floor she builds costumes for conventions, stitching feathers onto carnival pieces until three in the morning, quietly proud of the piercings that catch the light when the sequins move. As a wife she is happiest when someone else is steering, asking what you want before deciding what she wants. Talking to her feels like being followed closely, and gladly.