A Glass of Water

There it was. He beheld it, sitting there in its perfection, inches away, on his antique walnut coffee table - a glass of water. Stephan pulled up the swath of blankets that covered him and settled deeper into his leather chair as he stared at the glass.

He could tell it was ice cold by the soft wisps of mist that rose from its untroubled surface, and by the dewey drops of condensation that beaded the sides of the glass, mirroring the beads of his own nervous prespiration.

"If only..." he thought.

He extended his hands outward again, for what felt to be the hundreth time. They were strong callused hands. Dark, sun-aged hands that had wrung capote and tilapia from the nets and brackish waters for more than sixty years.

He moved slowly, ever so slowly, holding his breath as his fingers clasped the rim of the glass. Nothing. Perhaps he could finally-

No. It was best not to hope.

Still, as the glass slowly rose towards his cracking lips, he felt the hope flicker within him despite himself. Just a moment longer. Perhaps this time-

"Papa!" called Carmen brightly from the other room. Stephan lost his concentration for only a moment, but that was all it took. His hands betrayed him. The palsey came in waves, each tremor sloshing his precious water from his glass and onto his blanketed lap, until it the glass was empty and it was all he could do to keep from dropping it.

Carmen came into the room from the kitchen doorway, her every movement bursting with the lithe vitality of youth. Stephan just managed to place the glass on the table and hide his trembling hands in the folds of his now wet blanket before she could see.

"Papa, would you like me to make you some carne asada before I go?" asked Carmen.

"Yes, that would be fine," said Stephan.

"Good. I'll start to prepare. Would you like another glass of water, Papa?"

"Yes, that would be fine," said Stephan.

"You are very thirsty today," said Carmen, rising to return to the kitchen.

"Yes," said Stephan. The water had saturated past the blankets. He felt it seeping into his pants, cold tendrils working their way into his bones. His hands had stopped trembling, and he removed them from the folds of the blanket and rested them on his lap.

"Yes, one more glass would be fine."