The sky hasn’t opened in over a decade. Just a dust bowl of a city is left – deserted, mostly. The residents have moved on to some place better, some place with water, perhaps. We used to theorize where they all disappeared to. Some days it'd be Vienna, and the next it'd be France-- whichever suited our fancy, really. There is just the two of us now. Sometimes we spy the odd straggler loping down one of the back streets, or collapsed in a door frame. But we’re a private sort and usually keep to ourselves. You can never be too careful, after all, the heat does do funny things too a man. Makes him desperate. Makes him wild.

Worst the weather ever gets is when these arid winds sweep through the city from the north. Funny bouts of weather, they are. Not terribly strong. Not like a tornado or nothing. But if you’re not careful, they can pick the flesh clear off your bones. A special sort of grit travels in the wind. I wonder if it has something to do with where the gusts originate. We usually just find an alcove or some sort of makeshift shelter ‘til it passes, anyway. Rather be here than in a caged box back home. Its not all bad, you know. Sometimes the wind brings great big blankets of trash from the far reaches, littering the street in a colourful down of chocolate wrappers and other bits and pieces. These days make me grin from ear to ear as I eagerly sift through the relics of the old world, admiring the contrast of bright consumerism against the dull tones our washed out city.

Today however, something is different; the atmosphere is crackling with electric energy. Its enough to rouse Ollie from his sleep and when I wake, I find him sitting on the windowsill of our home. Home, this week, is the third floor of a dilapidated apartment building. It might’ve been a grand place at one time, inhabited by fine and fancy people. But all that’s left now is its proud skeleton that stubbornly refuses to deteriorate. Its possibly the most intact building we’ve stayed in since the exodus-- since the early months of rabid looting. Most of the windows were shattered when we got here, glass strewn around like an abstract mosaic against wood paneling. Who needs window panes in this heat, any way? And he’s sitting at the one with the best view, so caked with grime and dust he nearly camouflages into the city back drop. He gazes pointedly at the temple on the tallest hill for miles, as aromatic smoke rises from the corners of his mouth. By some act of the gods, one can make out the beginnings of grass. Water-colour pictures begin to form in my mind of chlorophyll coloured hills and swollen clouds. Greedily, I rise from the tangled sheets of the mattress to join Olliver on the paint chipped ledge, bare feet dangling in the stale air.

‘You can feel it.’ He says in a small voice, exhaling smoke from his nostrils like some odd looking dragon.

Words bubble up like liquid bleach in the back of my throat. Eyes squeezed shut, I burrow my bitten fingernails into the wood of the window frame and wait for the sensation to subside. It still astounds me how quickly I can forget. I've been without the use of vocal chords for months now, give or take. One can never be sure. I find that its easiest to keep track of time by the places we live, and I'm thinking it must've been about eight or nine places ago. We were still within the business district at this point, squatting in the remains of a some second story cafe. I went to the window to sing one morning but all that came out of my mouth was these gut-wrenching splutters and a slick slew of blood and mucus. Olliver reckons some of those foreign particles that blow in on the winds wheedled their way into my voice box. I reckon I don’t care much either way, ‘cept for the pain of forgetting. So I nod tightly in response, eyes watering like crazy. If he's noticed, he doesn’t show it and I’m thankful.

‘Rain.’

He threads his fingers through mine and pulls my hand upon his lap. The sun isn’t quite up yet and it gives the illusion of some great celestial bonfire beneath the horizon. And for a moment I wonder what it would be like to have my voice back. How the alto-soprano notes would sound spilling out my mouth and into the stagnant morning. My lips purse, bitter with the "what-ifs". But as I look past the crumbling rooftops and onto the sanctuary in the distance, my jaw slackens with the tantalizing whisper of water.