It’s hot and dusty on the terrace. Unpainted buildings in the distance look paper thin in the afternoon blaze. The leaves rustle only because they want to hide under each other to escape the heat.
Eyes squint looking around for empty chairs. Limbs with dry, parched skin move around, getting salt, passing spoons, serving curd. Skin around the lips purse and crease. And in that crease settle layers of gritty, ground pebbled dust.
When you speak, your throat hurts and feels raspy because it’s so dry. Your nose burns because the nostrils get allergy-ticklish with coarse earth-power.
Only a few days until, in all this, I can feast on a wet, cool, juicy, plump mango. And when I am finished with one, I’ll take another with sweet pulp on my fingers.
Desires at lunch time. So brazen.