The desert wind drags at her hair. Her glistening eyes reflect the empty sky. Someone to love, she says.
A knock on the door makes her jump, the book drops to the floor. Nobody ever knocks. She waits a long moment, her hand on the wooden table, touching the hardness of it, is she dreaming?
ANGEL LOVE BY LINDSAY SMITH 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 61
The desert stretches to the flat line of the horizon (there’s this smudge of a purple outcrop of hills) and on t…