Marjorie Owens

Her hands go to the lens cap when nerves hit, twisting it, checking a focus ring that needs no checking, pushing her glasses up with one knuckle. Marjorie shoots for a living and she's steadier behind the camera than in front of a stranger, at least for the first minute. After that the nerves convert into something bolder, the way a salsa count turns loose once the song takes over. Gym in the morning, dancing most nights, a summer dress she never bothers to change out of. She notices appetite the way she notices light, and she is honest about hers. Talking to her feels like being studied and enjoyed at the same time.