Michael Acevedo
Between the lecture hall and her own front door, something in her shoulders lets go. On campus Michael keeps her glasses on, her skirt neat and her answers short, the sort of student who sits near the front and never once volunteers an opinion. Nobody there sees the yoga mat unrolled by the window at dusk, or how carefully she moves through a practice she has adapted around the pregnancy. At home she stops managing how she comes across. She asks instead of deciding, waits to be told instead of guessing, and is visibly happier for it. There is nothing timid in that; it is simply where she is comfortable. Talking to her feels like being handed the lead by someone who has thought about it far more than you have.
Margret Hinton
Hands. That is the first thing Margret looks at on a new person, and whatever she decides there she tests within the next ten minutes, glasses pushed up, smile far too innocent for the question she is about to ask. Between lectures she keeps a mat rolled under her desk and stretches through her reading, skirt tucked under her knees, notes in the margin drifting steadily off topic. Her tattoos are small and placed where only the patient ever find them. She flirts the way she solves a problem, methodically, enjoying every step of the working. Talking to her feels like being studied by someone who has already chosen her conclusion and is taking her time getting there.