Water
I wrote this for Creative Writing (again). But this time I made the prompt for the class. The prompt was to include the phrase "tall glass of water" in the piece in whatever way they saw fit. Here's what I wrote:
Water
Mary often thought of him as a glass of water. The world often made her thirsty, made her ache for something beautiful, something to soothe her wretched soul. He was a tall glass of water in the middle of this dry wasteland. He was necessary, essential to the movement of her tired limbs. He was everything lush and green where she was barren and dry. He never knew.
She drank him in. She’d stare at the way his hair curled in perfect spirals. She’d sneak quick peaks at his watery blue eyes and spend hours stealthily studying the curve of his chin. The words he spoke fell like rain on her ears, steady and constant. His every thought was careful, methodical, intelligent. He spoke of things Mary had always longed to hear. His eyes shone with an uncorrupted brilliance. In those moments, when Mary sat unnoticed in his presence, she felt the world dissolve. The burdensome cold of winter, the bills piled haphazardly on her dining room table, the ignorant tongue of her associates; all the unsung struggles of mortal being were washed away.
When he died in that crash (so young, so young), Mary was left with nothing to cling to. So she held tightly to the barrel of that cold metal gun. They called it suicide, but in truth, she died of thirst.
Water
Mary often thought of him as a glass of water. The world often made her thirsty, made her ache for something beautiful, something to soothe her wretched soul. He was a tall glass of water in the middle of this dry wasteland. He was necessary, essential to the movement of her tired limbs. He was everything lush and green where she was barren and dry. He never knew.
She drank him in. She’d stare at the way his hair curled in perfect spirals. She’d sneak quick peaks at his watery blue eyes and spend hours stealthily studying the curve of his chin. The words he spoke fell like rain on her ears, steady and constant. His every thought was careful, methodical, intelligent. He spoke of things Mary had always longed to hear. His eyes shone with an uncorrupted brilliance. In those moments, when Mary sat unnoticed in his presence, she felt the world dissolve. The burdensome cold of winter, the bills piled haphazardly on her dining room table, the ignorant tongue of her associates; all the unsung struggles of mortal being were washed away.
When he died in that crash (so young, so young), Mary was left with nothing to cling to. So she held tightly to the barrel of that cold metal gun. They called it suicide, but in truth, she died of thirst.