Fish Traps

She stands with her black face some six inches from the moist window-pane wondering if it would ever stop raining. Her clothes barely warding off the cold, she gripped the cold steel of her umbrella and sighs, ten minutes more. She watches the puddles on the street as rain drums on endlessly on her rusting roof top. Gray clouds stretched on for miles. She worries of Marcelino’s fish traps.

Burnt

He had no body hair. Passion had consumed it all.