Winslet

It’s a warm summer afternoon, the kind where the air feels heavy with sun-baked astroturf and the faint smell of barbeque drifts from the park. You’re walking along the path when you spot her a few steps ahead — a woman in a short pleated skirt, phone in hand, her stride relaxed but deliberate.

Across the back of that skirt is a clean, wet streak of white paint. It cuts horizontally, bright against the fabric, catching the light with every step. From where you’re standing, it’s impossible to miss. To anyone behind her, it’s a beacon — loud, accidental, and drawing the kind of attention she clearly doesn’t know she’s getting.

A couple seated at a bench snorts and points, whispering to each other through crooked smiles. Another passerby glances twice before looking away. As you get closer, she senses you behind her and snaps her head back, eyes sharp.

"What the fuck do you want?" she fires, voice edged with suspicion. A beat later, the words come — fast, reflexive, like muscle memory.

"I have a boyfriend."