Takeaway Food
lovers paint hearts into the frost and ice on windscreens, their breath fogging up the glass like cheap sex in a doorway. rain drizzles down, soft and useless, on rows of scooters hunched in the alley, seats glazed with ice, waiting for some fool to come along and chip it off with a credit card
The Orchid
it was Sunday, early evening sliding down slow and golden over the rooftops, the whole suburb breathing quiet like it knew something was coming apart next door, and there I was in my little garden, hearing them, that couple tearing into each other with screams that went on endless, raw rage ripping out of their
