She is regarded in certain circles as a slacker. She knows this and doesn’t care. She wears the colors she loves; does whatever she wishes. She can be seen strumming strange instruments sitting sometimes on her porch and sometimes on her roof. On spring days, she paints her house crimson and the doors puce, a door that colors perceptions. Some call the door purplish-brown, others insist it is green.
At night candles burn in windows fogged with crystals and smoke. Cats wander in and out of her yard yowling at night, fed by day. Dogs slink among the foundation plantings. No one knows whether she has people, as they say. Gardens will appear every year at the appropriate season, but she is never seen to plant, never seen to harvest. She is always alone.
She inspires disquiet among some circles. Steps must be taken.