Sealed

Three hours in the car.

The AC was broken.

Windows sealed shut because of traffic,

because of the heat,

because I couldn't figure out

the manual crank.

My mouth went thick.

The plastic water bottle on the floor was empty—

I could see the bottom of it,

ribbed plastic, label half-peeled,

completely useless.

I tried to swallow.

My own spit was getting sticky.

The sun on the dashboard was white.

The steering wheel was hot enough

to leave marks on my palms.

Nobody was moving.

The highway was a parking lot.

The bottle stayed on the floor.

I kept touching my tongue to the roof of my mouth,

trying to generate something,

trying to remember what thirst felt like

before it became physical,

before it became the only thing

I could think about.

The traffic didn't break.

The windows stayed sealed.

The bottle stayed empty.

When I finally moved,

when traffic cleared

and I could breathe,

I pulled into a gas station

and drank three bottles of water

without stopping.

My hands were shaking.