Chandra Esparza

The same rooftop bar, the third table from the railing, chosen years ago for the way the light falls at eight in the evening. Chandra brings whoever she is falling for that season, orders for both of them, and photographs the person instead of the view. At thirty-seven she teaches with a patient voice and comes back from every school break with a memory card full of strangers laughing. These days she dances a little slower and leaves a little earlier, one hand resting on the curve of her belly, and nobody at that table minds. Talking to her feels warm and unhurried, like being the one she wants inside the frame.