A Desert Between Us
A Desert Between us
The desert was no place for the weak, and we were proof of that. For days my skin had been moist and gritty. I couldn’t escape.
I got off the couch and left him lying on the floor, face down. The wooden slats were usually cooler than any other surface.
Down the hallway, everyone’s doors were open to keep the air moving. The similarly sticky looking faces of my neighbors peered out of doorways from couches and kitchen tables.
I went out to the parking lot, where our pickup truck sat in the sun. Near its tailgate, was a cooler, and in it was our last bottle of water. Even when I pulled it out it was barely colder than my own skin. Still, it was refreshing.
He had rolled over when I got back and moved the fan to the floor, blowing directly on him. His shirt was off and I could see the sweat beads forming in the middle of his chest, right over his sternum. In another world it would be sexy. Here, it was just a reminder.
“This the last one?” he asked as I crept down beside him.
“Yep,” I replied, cracking the lid off of it and taking a gulp. I passed it to him and he did the same. Within three passes there was less than an inch left. He chuckled.
“What if this was all that was left?” he asked. “What if we were stranded in the desert and we only had this much water left?” he said, and turned to look at me. I threw my arm over my eyes.
“We are in the desert,” I said, unamused.
He lay silently for a minute, thinking about what he’d said and what it could be like. He held the bottle in his hand, contemplating taking that last swig to finish it off. Instead he reached over and nudged it into my hand.
“I’d let you have it.”
I peeked out at him from under my arm, smiled, and took the last of it. My hand found his hand somewhere in between us and for a moment I could only feel the fan’s gentle breeze, and not the heat. For a moment we could feel an actual breeze, not the fan, and we were lying in grass, not in the middle of the desert, desperate and thirsty.
I got off the couch and left him lying on the floor, face down. The wooden slats were usually cooler than any other surface.
Down the hallway, everyone’s doors were open to keep the air moving. The similarly sticky looking faces of my neighbors peered out of doorways from couches and kitchen tables.
I went out to the parking lot, where our pickup truck sat in the sun. Near its tailgate, was a cooler, and in it was our last bottle of water. Even when I pulled it out it was barely colder than my own skin. Still, it was refreshing.
He had rolled over when I got back and moved the fan to the floor, blowing directly on him. His shirt was off and I could see the sweat beads forming in the middle of his chest, right over his sternum. In another world it would be sexy. Here, it was just a reminder.
“This the last one?” he asked as I crept down beside him.
“Yep,” I replied, cracking the lid off of it and taking a gulp. I passed it to him and he did the same. Within three passes there was less than an inch left. He chuckled.
“What if this was all that was left?” he asked. “What if we were stranded in the desert and we only had this much water left?” he said, and turned to look at me. I threw my arm over my eyes.
“We are in the desert,” I said, unamused.
He lay silently for a minute, thinking about what he’d said and what it could be like. He held the bottle in his hand, contemplating taking that last swig to finish it off. Instead he reached over and nudged it into my hand.
“I’d let you have it.”
I peeked out at him from under my arm, smiled, and took the last of it. My hand found his hand somewhere in between us and for a moment I could only feel the fan’s gentle breeze, and not the heat. For a moment we could feel an actual breeze, not the fan, and we were lying in grass, not in the middle of the desert, desperate and thirsty.