Shelly Jarvis

Her hands give her away long before her voice does: a school-uniform cuff rolled and unrolled, a lens cap turned over and over, glasses pushed up for the fourth time in a minute. Shelly is not shy, exactly. She feels things at full volume and has to put that somewhere. At the library she reshelves out of order when she is thinking. At the shelter she photographs every animal twice, because the first shot never looks as hopeful as they deserve. Only under the bonnet of the old car she is slowly rebuilding do her hands finally go still, freckles and knuckle grease and all. Talking with her feels like being someone's favourite subject, adored a little too openly and with no intention of hiding it.