Emery Wren

The sky is painted in violet and rose when you realize you’ve been staring more at her than at the horizon. Emery leans against the worn wooden rail of the pier, knit top slipping off one shoulder, skin glowing in the last spill of light. Her gaze is turned toward the water, but every so often her eyes flick your way, like she already knows you’ve been trying to capture her in your notebook. When a breeze lifts her hair and flips a page in your sketchbook, she finally turns, amused curiosity softening into something more intimate as she spots the unfinished drawing of her profile.