By Brook Bhagat
V’s sitting on the sidewalk in the sun in headphones and cut-offs. She smiles at you, cigarette in one hand and a big paintbrush in the other, dripping yellow.
“It’s a warning,” you say.
She lifts it to the door of the sky blue bug and pulls out petals, stretching glorious to the handle, the wheel well, and the broken mirror from a perfect oval of shiny black seeds with a tiny white dot on each one and a ladybug the size of your fist right where he took the baseball bat to it.
“No,” she says. “It’s a flower.”