My Cardboard Balcony

The Orange Man by Belinda Roddie The orange man has hair as tough as straw and as false as a snake oil salesman's pitch. He does not care for following the law and likes to make each dear woman his bitch. He's greedy, he's fascistic, and he's crass, not keen on good old common courtesy, instead choosing to stir up the morass of struggling people who swear fealty to his con artist agenda. He says he'll make things great again, but I don't think such a claim holds water. Everyone pays for incompetence, policies that stink, and economic plans that'd make you scream. The orange man shall haunt you in your dreams.

"Did you call her?" "Yeah. I did. Multiple times." I leaned back in my chair. It complained loudly. "They're all unanswered. She wants nothing to do with me." My friend sighed and propped her elbows on the table. Her red curls fell in awkward zig-zags across her face. "Give her space, I guess?" she said. I shrugged. "I've given her three months. Who knows how much longer she needs."