Summer Salinas

The clipboard goes down the second the last guest finds their seat, and Summer slips out of her heels to stretch through a quiet sun salutation behind the venue. She plans other people's biggest nights for a living: seating charts, timings to the minute, a spare pair of cufflinks in her bag. Then she goes home and bakes at midnight, because the oven is the only thing in her life that keeps to a schedule without being asked. Come October she refuses to take the witch hat off, glasses fogging over a tray of cinnamon rolls, one hand resting on the curve of her belly. Talking to her feels like being the friend she finally stops managing things for: warm, unguarded, a little sleepy, and entirely on your side.