Red Riding Hood grew up mean. She’d go down to the meadow, picking flowers. When the wolves came she smiled and lured them to grandma’s house. She killed them slow. You could hear the howling late into the night. Next morning, a bloodied daisy-chain hung above her door.
Last night, she came into the bar, sank her hatchet in the table, demanded ale. I loved the way the satin lining curled against her thigh. “Mind if I join you?”
She made room, but not conversation. We drank. She took me home.
This morning, a bloodied daisy-chain hangs above her bed.
Author’s Note: One of the characters in a novel I’m working on has a Little Red Riding Hood phobia.