Roses Are Red Violets A - Bangbus

“Roses are red,” she says, voice flat and practiced, then pauses like someone waiting for a punchline that’s already been paid for. Around her, the fluorescent lights hum the same tune they always do—cheap, constant. The van smells faintly of old leather and air freshener. Outside, the highway unspools, an anonymous ribbon of asphalt and chain-link and billboards for things you never wanted.