DRY

The man looked down at the ground as he walked. He kicked up clouds of dust that would swirl around his ankles before settling into the cracks carved into the leather of his boots. His skin, as dry as the parched earth beneath his feet, itched. But he didn't scratch. He focused his unblinking eyes on the ground before him, on the dust he kicked up. One step, then another. The dirt road was so familiar that he seldom needed to look up to get his bearings. The same road. The same town. The same dust. The man himself was the only thing that seemed to change. The lines around his eyes and mouth had grown deeper, his steps heavier. Running a dry tongue over chapped lips, he looked up.

The widow was squatting in her yard, pulling weeds from a dead flower garden.

"Good morning, Ma'am," the man said.

She shielded her eyes from the sun, looking up at the man. "Not much good about it I reckon."

"Reckon not." The man said. The widow yanked a drooping weed from the ground. The man grunted a goodbye and began down the road again.

Rain had not fallen for 87 days. The town and the people in it were withering away. It would have to rain soon enough, they said. It couldn't go on like this forever. The man knew better. The fire that burned in his belly and seared his throat could go on forever, he had no doubt about that.

The man slowed his steps as he approached a dog in the road. Its brown matted fur was covered in dust from the passing traffic. He nudged the dog with the toe of his boot, but it didn't move. He pushed harder and the dog rolled over, looking up at the man with one eye. "Get!" The man said. But the dog sighed and plopped its head back to the ground sending a cloud of dust into the air.

The road dead-ended at the General Store. Without looking up, he walked to the back of the store picked up a bottle and headed to the counter. He rubbed the smooth glass with his thumb as he waited to pay.

"You sure about this son?" the clerk asked.

The man pushed the bottle towards him without answering.

"Ah well, it was only a matter of time I suppose. How long you make it this time?"

The man threw money on the counter, grabbed the bottle and turned towards the door. He stopped with his back to the clerk. "It was 87 days. I made it 87 days this time."

"That right? Well ain't that something." The clerk laughed.

Outside, clouds began to gather as the man twisted the cap off of the bottle. A loud clap of thunder woke the dog lying in the street. The man tilted the bottle back. Cold hard rain pounded the ground in the widow's flower garden. She jumped to her feet and began to dance as he emptied the bottle.

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