Parched

On a rather lengthy stretch of the moto-treka mild little jolt busted our tête-à-tête. We were arguing about the greenhouse plight, when we stopped at the traffic light. In the searing summer outside, a puny little handsome man pulled at a cartload from a local brand.They were air conditioners -aptly called the Arctic Grand.  With a wilting dwarf-like might,his fingers expectantly swipedthrough and across his frayed pockets. Then he just looked ardently at the semi-cladlanky reed of a lad. Wiping salt-water out of his eyes,the lad, bright and fine,waltzed between elegant cars and brawny bikes -all coated in layers of dust and flinty grime.  He scampered across pavementswith frosty water containers from “heat-smite”Most times the signal light would change shadewith all “heat-smites” intact and zero sale.At the next turn of redhe would respond sprightly to a random yell -Oye, water boy...come sell. Then, he would count the changewith a thirst that transcends the seemingly chronic bane.  Maybe the rest of the day would wear out like this. Maybe not. The light, though, would soon turn green.The car aircon: serene.We would briefly stay with the greenhouse theme before being lulled eventuallyinto a collective sleep of slippery daydreams. © Chandra S., November 2022