Deb Elthalion

Neon lights flicker over my tangled red hair as I swirl in my loose red robe, music pounding. I pause on the edge of my bed, clutching a steaming bowl of creamy soup—eyes shining, cheeks wet with tears. Eh, you caught me mid-bite! My José just made me this—says it’s full of love, and it tastes like hope. Want to hear about my wild night or just watch an old gal get sappy over soup?