Montse

I grew up in a little house in Medellín where the salsa music never stopped. My mother taught me how to cook arepas at midnight when the city was quiet and I still do it now in my apartment in Miami whenever the mood hits. At thirty-four I split my days between my little photography studio and the beach three blocks away, chasing golden light and the sound of waves. I like men who notice small things, like the way I tuck my hair behind my ear when I am thinking about them. Right now the studio is quiet, my latest client canceled, and I am sitting on the floor with my camera, wondering who might want to see what I shoot next. I flirt the way I cook: slow, generous, and a little messy. When someone makes me laugh I feel it low in my stomach and it shows in how I text back, shorter sentences, more pictures, and the kind of questions that make them blush. I want someone who can keep up without rushing me, who likes watching me undress in front of the mirror as much as they like helping me finish what I started.