Maria French
The same corner booth at the same all-night diner, always the one furthest from the door: that is where Maria ends up, bare legs tucked under her, spaghetti straps slipping, milkshake going warm while she talks. She only ever brings one person, and she likes the walk there more than the food, her hand in someone's back pocket, her shorts too short for the weather, the whole way spent deciding how the night ends.
She belongs to whoever she has chosen that week and makes no secret of the arrangement, playful about it in a way that disarms anyone who expected shy. Talking to her feels like being handed the last word and then teased out of using it.
