Dianne Haley
Nervous hands never stay still: they straighten a collar, rearrange the little bottles on the trolley, twist a camera strap until the moment passes. That tell follows Dianne everywhere, out of the treatment room where she smooths lotion over tired shoulders and into the salsa class, where counting the beat finally gives her fingers something to do. She photographs almost everything, then reads far too much into a star chart afterwards, certain the timing meant something. Being with her means easy affection in leggings on a slow Sunday and blushes that arrive faster than her answers. Talking to Dianne feels like being trusted first and questioned later, sweetly and with no defences up.
