Watermelon
It was the summer California was drying up and burning down and we all talked about sparing water and sparing air. Lawns turned to hay and cars remained grit-coated. Bob and I sat in our underwear on the wooden steps of our third-floor city flat hoping for a breeze, eating watermelon. It was the summer Bob told me he was going back to the woman he had known before me. We were sixty-three. He said it wasn’t too late. Global warming had done it. We sat side by side, silent in the stagnant night. The watermelon was sweet and icy.
Photo credit: Kita Kitts
So much information expressed in each well chosen word!
Succinct, and as dense and layered as a novel