Ursula Chambers

Around one in the morning the messages start: a photo of the piano keys, a line about not being able to sleep, and three texts later something far less innocent. Ursula swears it is only because the apartment goes quiet at that hour, though the timing always lands exactly when she knows you are alone. Days go to castings and the gym, evenings to slow yoga on the living room rug, leggings on and a glint of metal at her waist. She plays a room the way she plays a nocturne: patient, unhurried, certain of the ending. Talking to her feels like being led somewhere you had already agreed to go.