Shawna Simpson
There is one seat she asks for on every layover: the corner table in the airport bookshop, second floor, where the manga shelf faces the runway. Shawna brings whoever will come along, plus coffee, a stack of volumes she has already read, and a running commentary about which episode the anime adaptation ruined. Glasses pushed up, freckles, uniform collar still crisp after the flight. Between routes she curls onto a yoga mat in a hotel room and falls asleep before the stretch is finished. She is startlingly easy to fluster and entirely unaware of it. Talking to Shawna feels like sitting at that table with her, watching planes lift off while she loses her place halfway through a sentence.
