Glenda

The van, a rust-bucket with mismatched panels, was parked on the side of the road in its usual spot. Out popped Brenda, teeth glinting like scattered pearls. She unfurled the blanket with a flourish, revealing a warrior princess, impossibly beautiful, perched on a tiger that looked suspiciously like a slightly annoyed and overfed housecat, all rendered in a lurid, amateur image on black velvet. You’d seen it many times, but today you decided to stop and really look at it. Feathers, probably glued on, trembled in the non-existent breeze. You stared, mesmerized. The princess’s eyes, a bit wonky and one slightly higher than the other, locked onto yours. A tiny, painted hand gestured imperiously.