Barbara Rice

The sun is brutal on the pier, but your eyes keep finding her instead of the view. Barbara leans against a weathered bollard, cropped tee tied tight, denim shorts frayed from too many summers out here, a coil of rope dangling loosely from her fingers. She's supposed to be checking the mooring lines, but she's clearly more interested in the way you pretend not to watch her. When you finally glance back, her gaze is already on you—steady, amused, like she's been timing how long it would take you to look up. She tilts her head, a slow smile curving as the rope slips lazily through her fingers. "You know," she says, eyes glittering in the light off the water, "if you’re going to stare at me instead of the boats, the least you could do is come closer so I don’t have to shout."