I clench the glass tightly, shivering against the bitter wind.

My dried tongue searching for a trace of water.

I watch as small drops stream from the sky, freezing as they hit the bottom.

A beautiful melody of clinks and bounces, bringing me greater despair with every note.

The music suddenly changes, becoming a tiny rhythm of sloshes.

The breeze becomes softer, a light coolness brushing against my face.

“It has melted,” I rejoiced, bringing the glass to my cracked lips.

Yet, nothing comes to greet my dying mouth.

The sun has gone from a light glare to a pounding heat on my neck, the wind dead at my feet.

There is no relief at the bottom of my glass.

Only a small sizzle as each drop disappears into the air.

The glass becomes unbearable to hold, burning the palms of my hands.

Yet I still grasp it, desperate for the water that will never meet my throat.

The sloshes begin again, but I refuse to believe it will ever save my throat.

“There is no reason to watch the drops,” I tell myself.

But, I can’t seem to draw my eyes off the falling drops, transfixed by their beauty.

I slump into my arms, unable to hold up my head.

Stuck in an unending agony, eyes blurring against the bright sun.

There is no ending to my pain, the dry burn in my throat a constant reminder of my suffering.

I hoarsely cry to the world, pleading for an answer to my agony. 

I notice a warm pressure on my shoulder, unlike anything I have ever experienced.

I turn my head slightly to see a hand, connecting to the arm that leads to a welcoming face.

Their shadow shields me from the pounding sun, a relief to my aching body.

They gesture to my empty glass, asking if I would like some water.

I tilt my head in confusion, unable to comprehend that such a task could be completed.

A pitcher of water appears in their hand, pouring cold joy into my cup.

My hand races to grab it, pushing myself to drink it all before it disappears.

They laugh at my refreshed gasping, pushing the pitcher across the table.

“I’ll leave you with the whole pitcher,” they said, before walking to another table, pitcher in hand.