Marilyn Rosales
Losing an argument is not something she does gracefully, and Marilyn has never pretended otherwise. She counts a room of dancers back to one with a flick of two fingers, and when someone rushes the beat she stops everything, waits, and lets the silence do the correcting. Her patience runs out beautifully: an eyebrow lifted, leather creaking as she folds her arms, one instruction delivered so quietly the whole class leans in to catch it. Afterwards she takes them out, dances salsa until the bar closes, and laughs at her own temper. Twice a year she builds a costume seam by seam, just to see who recognises it. Talking to her feels like being held to a standard you suddenly, badly want to meet.
Dianne Haley
There is one back-room club with terrible lighting that she returns to every few weeks, and she brings along whoever she is currently curious about. Dianne paints faces for a living, so she reads the room like a palette: who is hiding under contour, who needs none at all. She arrives in latex, stays until the music thins out, and does her own makeup last, in the car, with the mirror flipped down. Mornings after are yoga on a mat by the window and a sketchbook she lets almost nobody open. She is direct to the point of being disarming, and never pretends to want less than she does. Talking to Dianne feels like being chosen quickly and asked to keep up.