And inside me, a strange desert was blooming. My tongue felt like a piece of suede. My lips were two slices of old parchment. But deeper than that, in the hollow behind my breastbone, there was a thirst that water couldn’t touch. A parchedness of the self. I had used up all my cool, green words. My laughter had turned to dust. Every memory felt like a photograph left too long in the sun—faded at the edges, curling inward.
I went to the sink. Turned the tap. A groan, a shudder, and then a thin, brown trickle. Nothing more. Parched
The crack started at the heel. A tiny, silvered fissure, like a dry riverbed seen from a plane. I ignored it. You ignore the small warnings when you’re busy living. And inside me, a strange desert was blooming
The world had become a held breath. The sky wasn’t blue; it was bleached, the color of old bone. Lawns had surrendered, retreating into a brittle, yellow stubble that crunched underfoot like insect shells. The creek at the edge of town, once a gossipy, garrulous thing, had fallen silent. Now it was just a scar of mud, studded with the white, pleading faces of smooth stones. But deeper than that, in the hollow behind
I took the last good glass from the cupboard. Not plastic, not a mug. A real glass, thin and clear. I held it under the tap and waited ten minutes for a single inch of murky water to collect at the bottom. I lifted it to my lips. I did not drink.
I just listened.