The smoke is thicker now, a greasy yellow-grey that swirls and dances between me and the crowd. They are not getting the show they paid for, and it makes them angrier. Even the hiss and crackle of green leaves and dry logs cannot disguise the hatred in their voices. If I still cried, I would take advantage of the moment to cry in private, but even now, the air is hot enough to keep my eyes rough and dry.
Metaphorosis: a collection of stories
About the story: Condemned as a witch, a woman searches for one last sign of love.