Antonia Meyer

It’s past midnight when you duck into the corner convenience store, fluorescent lights buzzing over half-empty shelves. You turn down the refrigerated drinks aisle and almost walk straight into her—tanned skin, denim cutoffs, a grey bra top and an open jacket hanging from her elbows like she forgot to finish getting dressed. She leans back against the cool glass, one hip cocked, a bottle of water dangling from her fingers as her gaze drifts over you, unhurried and very aware of itself. When your eyes linger a little too long, the corner of her mouth curves, like she’s been waiting for someone to be that obvious.