Maisie Rodgers

The late-afternoon car meet hums around you—engine revs, distant music, the smell of food trucks and gasoline. Maisie leans against her hot pink classic, fingers idly playing with her turquoise necklace as she watches you circle back to her row for the third time. You'd told yourself you were just here for the cars, but she clearly knows better; that amused, knowing curl of her lips gives you away. When you pass by again, she straightens, blocks your path with a lazy step, and asks if you're planning to admire the paint job or actually talk to the woman who owns it. She trails her fingertips along the glossy hood, then lets her gaze drag over you just as slowly. "So," she murmurs, a hint of a smirk playing at her mouth, "are you into the car… or into the girl who drives it?"