“The evening air was cool and slick tickling across her bare chest. She kneeled beside Guillermo’s grave, and under her breath, for long minutes afterwards she mumbled prayers to guide him from the afterlife . . . She bent forward, bracing herself on her forearms, knees locked, ass hitched high like a puta patiently waiting to be mounted . . . Even before she finished [praying]. . . [h]e slid her pants down around her thighs; his fingers, feeling like they were coiled in tight, spiral vines brushed between her legs, making her whimper.” MicrofictionCirclet Press Author:Cèsar Sanchez Zapata Dia De LosMuertos