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crown from me, and make the street art game even more, something legitimized, something taken on its core level.
    She’s definitely worthy of the crown.
    In that moment, it didn’t even matter what she looked like. Desire burned through to every inch of my flesh. If she’d been there, I would’ve kissed her without saying hello. Just rushed to that lush frame, pulled her into my arms, and explored her mouth with my tongue.
    I needed more of Red’s work. Like a wolf, drool dripped from my fangs and hunger ruffled my fur.
    Sun rays shifted to moonlight, and still I stayed in Wynwood, looking for more of her work.
    I was a meth head, trolling the streets like a drug-crazed zombie with my hands straight in front of me, licking my cracked lips and hungering for my next hit.
    My little red riding hood.
    I traveled the whole district, walking, step by step, my limo driver slowly following me down as I searched for more of Red’s murals.
    I hadn’t been disappointed either.
    She painted more vivid images on each block. Naked witches that burned bouquets of roses on the beach under the moonlight. Men chained to their chairs, remote controls nailed to their hands, eye sockets spilling over with sharp knives that were shaped like dollar signs at the points. Television cords injected into little kids’ arms like tiny heroine addicts shooting up for the evening.
    Red had a lot to say and refused to be ignored.
    The last mural I walked to that night, Red, herself, sat in front of it, smoking a joint and ignoring the few bums or neighborhood folk that traveled by. Hipsters and smokers were known to hang in the area at all times of night. This late in the evening no one bothered each other and everyone let the artists chill and do their thing.
    But I was irritated.
    Red was too small for the streets, too soft-looking, too silky. Did she not worry about getting raped or attacked? What about the police who sometimes patrolled the area? Granted, Wynwood kept a cloud of marijuana smoke hovering over the district daily. Still, it was illegal to smoke. And there, she sat by herself, late at night, high and painting until her heart’s content. Music plugged in her ears.
    There’s no way she has a man. Not a real one. What man would let his woman sit outside in the middle of the night, high, and on her own?
    I texted my limo driver and told him to go off until I needed him again. Once he left, I blended into the shadows, watched her paint, and then followed her home. It had only been to make sure she was safe, nothing more. That was what I told myself.
    Days later I found her at a new wall, creating an even deeper vision, although I couldn’t tell anyone what she’d ended up painting. By then, I only focused on Red—the flexing of her arms as she raised them in the air and sprayed her images, the curves that she couldn’t hide underneath those painted-on coveralls, the lovely voice that filled the air as she sang out loud, her headphones snug in her ears.
    And now she’s here, in my home. I can’t believe she actually answered my invitation.
    “Sir, would you like me to get you anything?” My assistant Pierre asked as I sat in the back of the room with a clear view of her.
    Pierre cleared his throat. “Sir?”
    I turned to the man. He’d served me since my first mural sale. An art museum had paid me half a million dollars for a large image of Abraham Lincoln smoking a joint and sitting on the shivering backs of crouching, naked black people.
    It had just been a dream, some weird visions after an all-day bong fest with my friend, Tito. We’d gotten so high our eyes were slanted, red, and hard to keep open. When I woke, I forced Tito to help me make the dream a reality. We’d stumbled through the streets at three in the morning with back packs full of spray paint that we’d stolen from the store. Black ski masks hid our faces, just in case. We thought we were being stealthy and mysterious. We were lucky we hadn’t gotten shot or