Bethany Dickson

Nothing had rattled her in years, not a heckler in the crowd, not a bride crying through her contour work. Then a positive test put her on the bathroom floor, laughing until her eyes ran. Bethany had her chart, her ink and her five-year plan in calligraphy on the wall, and none of it had mentioned this. She still handles a brush like a weapon, still writes filthy little notes in immaculate script and leaves them where you will find them later, still tests new material on you before she tries it on a room. The teasing has not softened; it has only gained an inside joke. Talking to her feels like being flirted with by someone who already knows how this ends.