Poorly sheltered under the balcony, a wet woman, watches as a pick-up van stops right in front of her. Rain pours, and she, caught of guard, half way between here and there, waited for the rain to clear. She notice the man in the van, a fat man, wearing a half-way open shirt, showing a gold chain with a crucifix. A small flag of a once great football club hang from the rear-view mirror. Some greasy singer sang a song named ‘Tears’. In the pick-up box, tucked in one of the corners, a woman shrunk miserably. Not that she was a miserable woman. She was young and pretty. But her clothes were completely wet, her hair was all crumpled up and she was stuffed in a corner like a pile of rags. Maybe because the traffic light took longer than usual to turn, maybe because when it rains, time goes by slower, the van took longer to drive away, allowing the two compagnon de route to look at each other, exchanging the most intimate look two wet women ever could.
The van drove off as soon as the little red man started to blink. Gone was the little flag and gone was the song ‘Tears’. The only remaining tears were the ones of the wet woman, hurt in her condition. Still, something was puzzling her; sensing the van driving away, the crumpled woman grabbed the edge of the pick-up box and sketched a smile, a charitable smile.
