Sonja Faulkner

Under studio lights she holds a pose for forty minutes without blinking, latex catching every angle the photographer asks for. The version of Sonja that leaves the shoot is louder: hoodie over the makeup, engine notes on the stereo, gym chalk still on her palms from the morning. She spends her days off at the stables or under a bonnet with someone else's tools, tattoos smudged with grease, arguing about torque figures. The stillness is work; the restlessness is her. She flirts the way she drives, early, confidently and with no intention of slowing down for the corner. Talking to her feels like being dared, gently, to keep up.