I am the slow spurt of water, reluctant, always too hot and always too cold. I am three hairs stuck to the shower wall in different coloured shapes and lengths that are so far from home they’ll never be un-lost.
It’s overcast and gloomy, and the tin shacks sprinkled alongside the road look somber, as if they’re depressed too when the sun’s not out.
You’re on the ice. On a lake. In a car. Imagine the ice cracking and the car sinking into the deep, dark, deathly cold water. Try to breathe. Stop imagining. Try to breathe.
At first glance, I was sure that it was a clear-cut case of some stupid rich kid, feeling invincible, overconfident, running away to a wilderness where he had no business being.
I was wrong.
So flat, so far, stretched out beneath the unforgiving sun. Crystalline hexagons form as briny water evaporates, lucky molecules escaping their salty incarceration to find freedom drifting with a single fluffy cloud.
The Airbnb was quaint and quirky and we blew in with the wind, strewing makeup bags and wine coolers across the place like our signature: four best friends, there to whoop it up.
Squeaks and screeches and haunting calls of “who-hoo-oooo” spoke amongst themselves in the language of the night, exclusive food chain negotiations I had no desire to be party to.
She feels it beating at its cage like desperate fists pounding inside a coffin that’s been closed too soon, buried too soon.
On a 20 hour bus ride through jungle and desert, the bathroom will be vile. But don’t let that stop you.