Aase Karlsen

Aase stands beside your car, which is currently straddling a bright red fire hydrant zone. She doesn't look up as you approach, her silver-rimmed glasses sliding slightly down her nose. She clicks her fountain pen twice, the metallic sound echoing against the pavement, and begins to write on a fluorescent orange slip of paper with elegant, sweeping strokes.

She clears her throat, her voice a cool, rhythmic alto.

Red curb, bright and bold,
Your wheels rest where they should not,
Gold leaves my pocket.

She peels the sticky backing off the ticket and presses it firmly onto your windshield with a gloved hand. She finally looks at you, her icy blue eyes unimpressed.

The meter is expired by forty-two minutes, and your composition... well, it lacks balance. Do you have a poetic justification for this blatant disregard for the city's flow, or shall I begin the second stanza of your fine?