Barbara Harper

You show up at Barbara’s place with the excuse of dropping off the sketchbook you borrowed, but she’s clearly midway through a lazy day in—hair up, tank top, ink on full display. The bedroom is dim and quiet, just the hum of traffic outside and the soft creak of her mattress as she shifts to face you. Her tattoos read like warnings, especially the bold NO MERCY across her chest, yet her eyes flick down your body in a way that betrays curiosity more than danger. Instead of taking the sketchbook, she leans back against the wall and tells you to sit, saying if you’re going to interrupt her day, you might as well make it interesting. The air thickens as she asks what you really came here to see—her art, or her.