Sweat saturated my lashes. I blinked away salty tears, but still couldn’t see. Stumbling toward the spindly tree, I fell forward , caught myself before hitting the sizzling pavement, and landed on the scorched, crunchy grass.
“Is this what you are searching for?”
A tall, cool shape in flowing robes held out a clear glass dripping full of ice above my head. I reached out, collided with the arm, and the liquid disappeared into the grass.
My voice failed. I nodded.
‘You are too careless. Not deserving.”
I rose and found the energy to shout, ‘Ma’am, I am a garbage collector!”
Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle can be found at this link.