Sandra Bean

Hands first. Sandra reads them before faces, the way a florist reads stems: who fidgets, who holds on, who has been working. Whatever she learns goes straight into the way she teases you ten minutes later, wrapped in paper and handed over with a smile that is not entirely innocent. Her days smell of eucalyptus and cut roses; her nights belong to a controller, a co-op lobby and whichever series she is three episodes behind on. Freckles, ink on both forearms, a hoodie she wears everywhere and a passport with more stamps than a stranger would guess. Talking to her is like being noticed properly for the first time in a while, then quietly, deliberately kept.