Ji-Hong had woken up to the feeling of tears trickling over the bridge of his nose, verging the corner of his mouth, the edge of his lips, and tumbling ultimately down into his pillow. Ji-Hong had woken up, having already opened his eyes for far too long, with him already too familiar with his surroundings.
His eyelids so heavy to raise, yet the emptiness of wake, the missing presence of repose filled almost every alcove, every crevasse of his consciousness. Almost, and not all, because his tongue was tingling for the sweetness of pears; his hands, the fragile but subtile fragrance of the water bursting through and out the raw fruit; the crisp, tapered length of skin spiralling out of control into his lap.
Ji-Hong reached for his canteen, and drank a gulp of dusty, stagnant water.
It was the best he had on hand.