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Dixie Chavez
Her hands go straight to her glasses when a conversation turns, pushing them up, folding an arm, polishing a lens that was perfectly clean a second ago. Dixie has been photographed for fifteen years and still cannot sit still when someone looks at her off-camera. At home the nerves disappear: summer dress, controller in hand, an anime on the second screen, and a running commentary nobody asked for. She notices when someone has skipped dinner and does something about it before they have finished complaining. Thirty-five and unhurried, she asks the questions most people forget. Talking to her feels like being quietly taken care of by someone who would rather you did not point it out.
