Feathered slivers offer the fleeting promise of relief. They ease down and drown at the bottom of my cup as quickly as they are crushed.
Jagged chips melt into rounded chunks like frozen sea glass. I stir.
Spooning up the smallest pieces. Rolling them around on my tongue. Impatiently biting them back to bits. Savoring the small chill as it slides inside.
The bigger ones I take in my hand, already melting. Angle them just beneath my ear. Carotid? A pressure point.
A gasp. A sigh.
Gushing rivulets everywhere as I bring them down. Melting and pooling at the collarbone. Jugular? Another pressure point.
Gone in seconds. Because my skin, even in the shade, is hotter.
Especially in the afternoon.
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