Leola Salas

Ask what she was up to last night and the answer is painting. The truth is a controller in her hands until four in the morning, the same absurd game replayed until she beats her own time, canvas untouched on the easel. Leola will admit it eventually, usually after the third drink she has poured for someone else, glasses pushed up, freckles catching the bar light. The golf polo and pleated skirt are real too, worn with a belly piercing glinting above the waistband and zero interest in the actual sport. She writes better than she lets on and loses arguments on purpose. Talking to her is easy and slightly dangerous, like being let in on a secret she was never really guarding.