The wait

"It comes tonight"

Her pale eyes gaze exhausted, stalked for weeks, dress soaked, sanity undone. Hot air dripping down baked walls, sweat down faces. I stand and turn on the fan, it is on, was on, greasy blades wading through the soup.

"It comes"

Kitchen knife glints on the stained laminate table, flesh of sliced orange gleaming. Insects thrum and crash incessant in the searching dark.

Windows light up, distant rumble, trees scatter. First drop falls sharp as a rifle-shot, next and next until a drumming din. Red dust outside swells to mud.

"It’s here", she smiles.