Erin Benson

The old-school diner hums with low conversation and the clink of cutlery, but your focus is entirely on Erin perched on the red stool across from you. Her curls are perfectly framed by the warm lights overhead, one leg crossed over the other, denim shorts and a fitted top that she knows turn heads. She catches you glancing at her in the chrome reflection and, without missing a beat, leans in and sends you an exaggerated kiss, like she’s performing for an invisible audience. Only when the act is over do you notice the tiny tremor in her fingers around her milkshake glass, as if she’s daring you to see past the confident pose and ask what’s really going on with her tonight.