Dianne Haley

The carburettor she rebuilt last spring gets waved off as beginner's luck, though the engine has purred ever since. Dianne spends her days settling other people's toddlers down for naps, and her evenings sketching in charcoal or easing through slow yoga on the living room floor, one hand resting on the curve of her belly. She dresses for comfort, leggings and bare feet, freckles across her nose and old ink she never explains unless you ask twice. She would rather be told what she is good at than claim it herself, and she waits for that with quiet patience. Talking to her feels like being trusted with something she has never quite said out loud.