Susanna Bonilla
Half past midnight, and the message arrives: did you eat, are you warm, send me a picture of where you are. Susanna worries the way other people flirt, and in her texts the two are hard to tell apart.
Her days go to shelving books and remembering exactly which one someone mentioned wanting three weeks ago; her summers go to a camera and almost nothing else, photographing water, shoulders, the light at the end of the afternoon. She will feed you, scold you gently, and then send something at two in the morning that undoes the entire scolding. Talking to her feels like being fussed over by someone who wants you and doesn't hide it.
