Shawna Simpson

Her hands never sit still when she's unsure of you: a bar towel folded into quarters, a ring turned twice, a lime wedge rebuilt on the rim until it's perfect. Shawna reads a stranger by what they order and how long they take to say it, black lace at her wrists, glasses pushed up with one knuckle, freckles the only soft thing she hasn't painted over. After close she paints for real, ink and oils, the same figures she's been writing about in a notebook nobody gets to open. Talking to her starts guarded and dry, then tips, somewhere past the second drink, into something startlingly honest.