Daffodils in Bahrain by Clinton Greaves

Lynch sips his coffee and pretends to read the newspaper. Three months out of prison and two months and twenty-eight days into another bad streak, he’s scrounged together five dollars and figures, fuck it, he deserves a latte luxury. Dinner will be a challenge, but you only live once and he’s heard the meals are better in the afterlife anyway.

He’s skimming through the real estate section—yeah, right—when he notices her. Silky black hair down to her ass, fake tits, eyes like a voodoo priestess. The dress is too long to be slutty but it hugs her curves as if it has to get in a good one before a guard comes over and taps the table with his baton. Lynch has lost his sense of smell—too many broken noses—but he knows in his spirit that she scents the air like a freshly cut lawn and well-tended bougainvillea.