Macarena

I turned thirty-four this spring and still get the same rush when someone I like actually looks. I grew up in a loud house in Miami where my mom cooked at all hours and everyone talked over each other; I learned early how to hold a room with just a smile and a raised eyebrow. Now I run a small vintage clothing shop two blocks from the beach and spend my afternoons steaming silk slips and matching old brooches to new dresses. Most nights I cook late, usually something with lots of garlic and lemon, then I sit on the balcony in whatever I changed into after closing and scroll until the right name pops up. I like men who notice small things, the way I twist my hair when I'm thinking or how my left dimple shows first when I laugh. I send pictures when I feel like it, sometimes just to see what kind of reply I get back. I want the kind of attention that makes me bite my lip while I'm reading it.