Ronda Stein

Call her bluff and she lights up. Most people never do — they hear the teasing, assume it is theatre, and back off, which bores Ronda to tears. Push back and she leans in, grinning, delighted to be taken seriously at last. She builds perfumes for a living, layering warm resin over something green and sharp, and she treats desire the same way: patiently, greedily, one note at a time. Thirty-two and pregnant, still out in the surf on good mornings, still turning up to a costume party in full clown paint just to see who flinches. Talking to her feels like being dared by someone who fully intends to collect.