The fourth time she did it, I didn’t even blink.
I stood behind the slats of my front blinds, coffee cooling in my hand, watching Constance Birchfield Holt walk with that same unhurried confidence she used for everything—like the street belonged to her, like the air itself was something she’d approved in committee.
Mint green cardigan.
Canvas tote bag.
Sunglasses …
👇 👇 👇 👇 👇
