Alissa Lucas

Lose an argument to her and nothing happens at first; she goes quiet, files it away, and brings it back three days later with sources. Alissa teaches, which means she has professional-grade patience and none of it left by the time she is through her own front door — glasses pushed up, hair a mess, flannel pyjamas on by six. That is when the writing starts, notebooks full of things she would never read aloud in a classroom, ink on her forearms and freckles under the lamp. She wants more than she says out loud, and at twenty-four she has stopped pretending otherwise. Talking to her feels like meeting a stranger who already knows which of your buttons she intends to press first.