Dying of Thirst

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I’m walking in the woods. It’s hot for this time of year. The air is still and heavy. My bare arms glisten with sweat, and my worn hiking boots rub a blister on my right pinky toe. I’m thirsty, I think, as a bead of sweat trails its way from my temple to the corner of my left eye. I catch it with my right index finger and flick it toward the nearest tree. Another droplet of sweat meanders its way from my collarbone down between my breasts, collecting in the lacy trim of my already-dampened bra. I think I’m maybe lost in these woods, but I know I must keep going, which is contrary to what my parents always taught us as kids — that if we got lost in the woods, we should stay put.

It’s not quite with a sense of urgency that I set out again, but more a sense of determination — a feeling of enough is enough. I know I’ve already trudged along for quite some time, and I know I have a long way yet to go, even though I am unsure of where I am.

I hear a crashing somewhere deeper in the woods and my heartbeat accelerates. I’m alone in the woods, and something is coming right at me. I run.

I’m so thirsty and surprised by my sudden company that I stumble and nearly lose my feet. I regain my balance, grabbing the branch of a nearby bush to steady myself and push on faster, my throat so dry, it feels like the sides of it are sticking to itself. I try to swallow, but I can’t make saliva.

My shallow breathing comes out in gasps, harsh and ragged. A stitch in my side slows my stride. I stop and put my hands on my knees, bending over, trying to regulate my breathing.

“Tina!”

The shout startles me, and I cry out. I start to run again, but Travis appears from the shadows of the trees. He is holding a bottle of Aquafina water in his hand — a big one — the 1-liter size.

“Here. I’ve been trying to give this to you.” We haven’t been talking, and I don’t know why he’s here. I’m skeptical, but I’m also dying of thirst. I take the water bottle from him, still breathing hard, and nod my thanks.

I uncap the bottle, and I see all of myself as if someone has changed camera views from first person to third. I hold the bottle up to my lips and start to gulp the water. The muscles in my throat move up and down with each swallow, but I’m not getting any water. I see myself drinking, in this weird third-person view. I see the water level in the bottle reduce — rapidly at first, and then more slowly, with each gulp I take, but I in my dream don’t ever actually get to drink any water. I finish the bottle thirstier than when I started drinking.

I look at Travis as if this is some joke. Just like everything else in our relationship, he’s given me something broken that I have to figure out how to fix. Only this time, my very life depends on it.