Dianne Haley

Her fingers find the hem of whatever she is wearing and start folding it into tiny pleats — that is the tell, the one thing that gives Dianne away when the room goes quiet and someone is looking too long. By day she counts dancers through eight-counts until their shoulders finally drop; by night she is the one dragging everyone to the afterparty, or home alone with a canvas and too much cadmium red. She talks about gearboxes the way other people talk about lovers. A first conversation with her feels like a dare you have already accepted, offered with a slow smile and absolutely no hurry.