Droplets of Life
by crystal tiara
"It's pretty hot," he tells me, before ordering beer for the two of us.
My eyes – their downcast gaze fixed on the table – shift their focus towards the sky. Anyone can see or feel the sun shining high amidst a horizon of clear blue, casting unmerciful and scorching rays down on the world. But I can only picture the sky as clouded and gray, threatening to rain anytime. My dreaming turns into a half-wish that the rain will pour today, if only to quench the thirst of the brown, dry earth.
Emptying my glass of beer, I savor the taste of malt on my lips, my thirst still unsatisfied. But I suppose beer – this devil I know – is better than the last drink he bought me, unfamiliar and tinged with the flavor of poison, despite his assurances that the first sip was always bitter, that it would taste sweet as honey soon after.
There's always been a parched sensation in me, one that I can't describe, one that goes beyond a simple drink to drown out the dryness. Ever since I was young, I've always felt barren, empty, arid – and I suppose that's why all I do is spend my days in search of a drink.
When I met him, I thought he was like my favorite cocktail – just the right blend –and that maybe, just maybe, he was the answer to my thirst. He promised that every day we could see the world, a little bit at a time, and maybe find that perfect drink we were looking for, if such perfection did exist. But all we ever saw of the world were dingy motel rooms, with cracked ceilings instead of skies, dim lights in place of the sun, and morning-after pills for souvenirs. We filled our glasses to the brim and drank until we could take no more, yet inside we – maybe only I – were thirstier than before.
He interrupts my reverie of thoughts, trying to steer conversation towards that "awfully simple operation". I divert my attention to the fields on the other side, turning a deaf ear towards trite words. He tacks on an "I love you" to his statements, but I could be hearing things – it doesn't sound like him at all.
I want to tell him that we have the perfect drink in our hands now, and with it, even the world. Maybe it wouldn't be as perfect as we thought it would be, but if we tried, we could make it better. But all he thought of was an operation, a means of taking care of an open seam.
I imagine my hand stretching into the long river outside. Once the water droplets in my palm evaporate, they will never be the same again. Where will they go afterwards? I suppose they'll turn into clouds, and then fall down as raindrops into someone else's hands. When that happens, the liquid that might have quenched my thirst will have been lost forever.
Author's Notes (and disclaimer): This piece was written as an assignment in Literature class. We were to create a 300-500 word retelling of Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants", either from the first person or the omniscient third person POV. I opted to write mine in the first person, from the point of view of the girl, Jig. Since this homework was only assigned last weekend and submitted yesterday, our professor has yet to return our works to us. So, I'd like to know what you think about my work. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated. :)