The teenagers called me “crazy artist lady.”
The men loitering nearby called me worse when I refused their “offers.”
My lover called me stubborn for staying. “It’s not safe.”
I scoffed. “They’re just talk.”
I worked all day and into the evening, but flagged. Grabbing Gordo the Great Dane’s lead, we loped to the coffee shop; I hummed something cheery.
The barista smiled. “Your showing’s tomorrow?”
“You must be excited.”
Red paint dripped down my door from the four-letter slur. Inside, three years of blown-glass artwork glittered in the light, innocently beautiful in its destruction.