Thirst

Art by Janssen Judd Romero/ THE FLAME

IT WAS 42 degrees hot and all Denzel could think about was water. His throat had begun to dry. His lips had cracked, too. It was not even noon when the 18 workers set out to cover every pole and abandoned wall alongside the road with campaign posters.

Seventeen workers brought bottled waters to beat the heat. Most were for the older workers, and so they carried two, and the middle-aged Denzel would rather die out under the scorching sun than be caught stealing from the old.

“Sa’n sa’yo?”

“Nakahingi sana ako ng bente pambili kung ‘di tayo maaga. Akala ko may pa-bottled water si Sir Paz. Okay lang. Sabi din sa balita kahapon forty-two pero forty lang naman.”

“Daming tao ni Councilor Bong. Punong-puno Blumentritt ng mukha niya. Kailangan mas maaga tayo sa kanila.”

“Si Sir Rafi, dadating?”

“Nasa dagat pa, kausap ata mga mangingisda kasama media.”

Denzel took out a rolled poster, grabbed an adhesive, and stuck it to the wall as hard as he could, all the while thinking about how he could quench his thirst.

When no one was looking, he would ask stores nearby if they had one for free. The public drinking fountains haven’t been fixed for the past six months.

By afternoon, his luck ran out. He was almost dying of thirst.

His world was already spinning. He could see his friend becoming two. His balance was that of a drunkard. But he still had 60 posters to go before he could go home. FNoe Murcielago

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