... She Wrote

A Sticky End

(prompt: 'heat' Mar 5, 2021)

"I know it's young yet," I said, rolling my eyes in best diva fashion, "but it'll be cold and that's all that really matters?"

Kanute looked anxious, but only briefly. "Three days old? That's cradle-snatching for sure." But like a seed, the thought sprouted and grew, as our eyes glinted with anticipation. Throats became drier than the Sahara at the thought and won the day.

It had been another stifler in the West Australian wheat belt, in a heat wave without an evening temperature below 32°C for over two weeks. The sun's relentless demands on our energies and enthusiasm made even our daily after-lunch siesta inadequate. Could an early night be the solution? Sounded good, but we soon found sleep impossible. The sun may have set, but its memory lingered—with a vengeance. Brainstorm number one that night was to soak two thirsty bath towels, wring them out and lie on them. Bliss... even if they required frequent replenishing.

Abruptly we were both awake again. The softest breath of air floated through the tall, slim French doors of our bedroom, gently caressing our bodies. A miracle called a breeze had begun.

"It's the cool change starting, I think!" I whispered.

"Shh. Don't say it out loud. You'll frighten it away!"

The slow, steady drop in temperature was unadulterated bliss. I stretched, my hands sliding over the cooling sheets, lazily noting the sheet felt strange somehow, as my nose registered something else. My monster sneeze brought us both awake. Our bed was being transformed into a gritty sandpit. A dust storm had begun. As I closed doors and side window, and Kanute turned on the light, I wished he hadn't. The renowned Australian red dust hung above us in a threatening cumulus formation as the room returned to its previous stifling state. Too cruel altogether, hearing the sounds of that cool (though filthy) wind gaining strength outside.

Brainstorm number two emerged. Impossible to start a clean-up of this magnitude with parched throats and soggy, dripping bodies without a cold liquid intake (alcoholic was preferable—for Dutch courage). And close on that light-bulb moment's heels came the solution - my new home-made Rhubarb Champagne.

Kanute produced wine glasses and a bottle of my youthful brew. The glasses gleamed on my bedside cupboard atop the centimetres of deep grit shrouding everything, as Kanute sat on the edge of the bed to twist out the cork. It was tight, and a struggle ensued—until the cork exploded out of the bottle along with half the contents in a powerful fountain of bubbles!

Little on my side escaped its lethal aim; the glass-topped dressing-table and huge mirror, the bed, the floor, the window... and of course, ourselves. Wherever the tiniest beads of the pale pink stickiness landed, the dust turned into an attack of red-brown killer measles.

We fell about laughing until exhaustion created enough composure to study the damage. We'd have wept - if we'd had the energy or even a drop of moisture left. Spirits faltered, but that temporary courage of my bubbly helped us face the monumental clean-up.

Memory suggests we required another bottle (or two?) before cleanliness and deep sleep claimed victory.

Author's Note: Yes, yes...shhh! It is a repeat but from more than 3 years ago and it's had some serious tweaking and  woman-handling since then. Besides, heaps of folk have never seen it (or remember it? Please say you don't?)