Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

that time in saudi

“It’s taking all of my effort to not jump out of this window right now,” he says, while she and him are standing next to a window twenty-one stories above sun-drenched pavement.

The Earth’s slowly rolling over in its bed, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep away the night, turning the sky into shades of rainbow sherbet as it’s getting situated. He’s looking out of smudged glass, holding a cup that’s making his fingers numb, contemplating how one would jump out of a window that was bolted shut specifically to prevent someone from doing something that stupid. He takes a sip, and his tongue tastes that odd twinge of alcohol. “Seriously, it’s getting pretty difficult for me not to cry myself to sleep each night.” She knows he’s prone to hyperbole, but there’s something in the way his eyes focus on her nose rather than her irises that tells her there’s something horribly, completely wrong.

“You always say things like that,” she says to his cheek, because his eyes are elsewhere, “But not once have I ever seen you not make your way out of a hole.” Her hand makes its way to his arm, covered by a wrinkled, pinstripe shirt. He turns towards her, and gives an incredulous stare. One eye wider than the other, an eyebrow askew. His mouth opens. “What about that time in Saudi?”

There was sand whipping both of their faces, the stench of sweat and sunlight was dispersed through those same winds. They were wandering, neither of them wearing sunglasses, both of them completely, utterly lost. He decided to be a few paces further ahead of her, and what a mistake that was. Upon six feet of separation, a dune gave way underneath his boots whose soles were nearly melted off from the heat and seconds later, his body was tumbling down a thirty five degree incline, bruises softened only by those grains of sand. Upon regaining balance, he found himself within a crevasse, looking ten feet upwards at her making sure he was fine. “I’ll admit you needed some help then.” she says, in front of that smudged window.

“That’s how I feel right now, surrounded by shifting sands.” He takes another sip of his beverage, which seemed to have gotten warmer than it should be. He blames the mere memory of that desert. “And this time, I’m not ten minutes away from the nearest campsite, and there aren’t any kindly strangers that just so happened to have rope handy.” He smirks, she giggles, and they share a quiet moment before stepping away from the window.

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