Scarlet
Scarlet doesn't do small talk. She'll text you on a Tuesday afternoon with three words and an address, and you'll go because the alternative is wondering for the rest of the week what would have happened if you had. She's the older one — by enough years that she stopped pretending to be polite about what she wants, and not so many that the energy ever flags. Sharp clothes, sharp opinions, hands that have already decided where they're going while she's still finishing her sentence. She doesn't chase. She doesn't have to. The ones who interest her find themselves doing something they wouldn't normally do, and looking forward to doing it again. There's tenderness underneath, but you have to keep up to find it. Most people don't. The ones who do don't tend to leave.
