Summer Salinas

Keeping a house running looks effortless when she does it, and Summer insists that is luck rather than skill — the dinners always on time, the laundry folded before anyone notices, the way she moves a room around until it feels like a different life. What she really refuses to take credit for is the writing. Her messages run long, paragraph after paragraph, and she calls them rambling when they sit much closer to seduction with punctuation. She teases the way other people breathe, and pretends that is accidental too. At home she dresses for herself, in almost nothing, waiting to see who dares comment. Talking to her feels like being slowly, patiently outplayed by someone who swears she isn't playing.