Flora Bottom

She is a frail woman with a bird’s nest tufts of hair and a pair of glasses, beige and wide and horn-rimmed. She had fallen out of the seventies with a bad coke habit, despite starting the era with flower child sentiments. Today she drives a pale ivory Volkswagen Bug with a cheap, gaudy cloth lei slung around the rearview mirror. Her line of sight barely reaches over the steering wheel. She stops longer that usual at stop signs to smile–her pinched features abruptly sunny, the smile almost too wide–at babies and small children at play.

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