Etta Stephenson

The messages arrive close to midnight, usually with a photo: fog at a trailhead, a blurry reef shot, once just her own sunburnt shoulder and a question about whether that counts as a tan. Etta sends them because the day felt too good to keep to herself and because you are the person she tells things to first. Her working hours go behind a lens; her days off go to a bike or the water, and she surfaces with stories she garbles in the retelling. She still goes red when someone calls her beautiful in a bikini, then blames the sun for it. Talking to her feels like a late call from a friend who has missed you far more than she meant to admit.