thefeministwriterwhogoesmeh

The sweet, heady smell of mangoes filled her up with a lazy kind of joy. Droplets of sweat were taking root in the crevices of her body. She lifted her face to gaze at the lithe morning sky, burning with the anticipation of something that she could not quite fathom. She took a sip of the cool माठ water. A tiny stream of acrid sweat trickled behind her ear, wending its way down her neck. She swatted at a stray fly. The orange sun seemed to distort the air, creating a sweltering mirage. Sleep stole over her obstinately, as her eyes desperately clasped shut to protect from the brightness. She lay in the chair, valiantly trying to stay awake and at last, gave in to a deep, warm slumber.