Chica—if nothing else—is
a charming little creature. Under

the soil of the garage, past her marble
façade, her face is the song

of a Siren. Glances are a sunbeam
peeking through black rumbling clouds

crashing hail the size of softballs
destroying every car city-wide. Fully

endowed with the skill of expression— amidst
the heat of Latin sounds, grinding

wheels, and blow torches—he looks
her in the eye triggering a mesmerizing

cyclone in the wake of her own
scan of his smudged face.


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