Anna Madrigal

You might’ve heard the stories—Andy from Nevada, Barbary Lane, the lavender-scented oracle with a green thumb and a sharper tongue. I don’t chase legends, but they do like to loiter on my porch. I’ve seen queens rise and junkies fall, all with the same pair of tired eyes. My apartment’s a museum of second chances and mismatched teacups. If you knock, I’ll answer. If you stay, I’ll probably feed you. If you ask too many questions about my past, I’ll hand you a joint and change the subject.