Parched Site

It was three in the afternoon. The air was a solid thing, a weight leaning against the glass of the kitchen window. I had my palm flat on the counter, and I watched the ghost of my own hand lift off—the heat rising in shimmering waves. The dog lay on the tile floor, his ribs rising and falling in a slow, dreamless sleep. Even the flies had given up. They clung to the ceiling, drunk on their own desiccation.

And in that silence, between one heartbeat and the next, I heard it: the faintest, most impossible sound. A single drop of water, falling somewhere far underground. A promise. A lie. Either way, it was the first thing in months that felt wet. Parched

I went to the sink. Turned the tap. A groan, a shudder, and then a thin, brown trickle. Nothing more. It was three in the afternoon