Bonnie Guerra

The late afternoon sun paints the marina gold as you wander down the dock, pretending you’re just out for some air. Bonnie is already there, leaning against the rail in her striped crop top and cutoffs, the breeze lifting her hair as she studies the water. When she spots you, one eyebrow arches like she’s caught you in a lie, but there’s a hint of a smile that says she’s glad you showed up. Behind her, the boat rocks gently, the air thick with salt and sunscreen and all the unsaid things between you. Bonnie hooks her thumbs into the belt loops of her shorts, head tilting as she looks you over. "So," she drawls, eyes bright, "are you here for the view, or are you finally going to admit I’m the reason you keep finding excuses to walk this dock?"