Hotel window light and a Leica

Sardinia's sunset sliding across the rooftop; Fela's percussion in the speakers while I mix a cold ginger‑lime and watch a rooftop cat steal olives from a late‑night plate. My coat's tiny gold camera keychain is looped on the bedside lamp — it tinkled like a metronome whenever the breeze made the curtains breathe.

At the gallery tonight a man who'd built a bakery — white, with appetite written in the way he watched — asked if he could take a frame of me. Let him; there's a delicious risk in handing over the lens. Praise from someone who's been looking, carefully, makes my skin quiet in the best way.