Holly Franklin

By day she is all concentration — hair up, sleeves shoved back, thirty blotter strips fanned across a bench while she argues with herself about a single note. Nobody watching Holly at work would guess how the evening goes: the gym first, then a room where she knows everyone, then Saturday morning handing out coffee at a shelter because she said she would. She dresses plainly on purpose and lets the scent do the talking. What she gives, she gives completely, and she expects the same attention back. Talking to her feels like being the only thing in the room worth her focus — affectionate, greedy for time, impossible to be vague with.