Pits of Plenty at the Oasis
Ragged and worn, a gaunt man in tattered clothes, with a wild beard and sand-encrusted feet, drags himself into the oasis tavern.
“Water.” He rasps, collapsing to the floor. “Water!”
“Oh my.” A barmaid in a sleeveless blouse hastily pours a mug and runs up. “Drink this!”
She cradles the gaunt man’s head against her ample bosom, offering the icy cool relief. His dry cracked lips quiver as they meet the mug. And then his eyes flick to her exposed armpit.
“Wait,” he says. “I can’t drink this.”
“Oh but you have to!” She insists. “Who knows how long you’ve been out in that brutal, brutal heat.”
“It’s true.” He nods. “I’ve endured the cruelty of the desert for forty days and forty nights. The unrelenting sun beat upon my back like a slave master’s whip, and the endless rolling hills, stretching on and on into what seemed a profane eternity, scorched my soles without mercy.”
“Oh no.”
“I couldn’t even sit for a single second, lest I burn my ass.”
“Oh you poor man.” She pouts. “Then you must drink up at once!” She offers the mug again.
He blocks it with his hand. “I can’t. A man who has gone so long without drink can’t dare to imbibe something so pristine. So pure.” He levels his gaze. “It’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” She tilts her head. “Pure?”
He nods solemnly. “It could cause an electrolyte imbalance.”
“An electrolyte imbalance??”
He nods again.
“Oh my.”
“God knows what would happen then…” he intones.
“But for that you need salt. And we don’t have any!”
“Oh what a shame. It seems I shall die, here and now, in the arms of a beautiful woman.”
“Oh please don’t die,” she pleads.
“Unless,” he says.
“Unless?”
“You would be so kind, so benevolent, as to offer this poor besotted soul…”
She leans in. “Anything.”
“…your salt.”
“My salt?” She leans back, blinking. “Whatever do you mean?”
“There,” he points at her armpit. “The salt of your body.”
“My body?”
“Your sweat.”
“My sweat? Oh. Oh my. Oh, I don’t know about tha-”
The man throws his head back. “I’m dying! I’m dying!”
“Okay! Okay! Don’t die! I-I’ll get something to scoop it up.” She shifts to rise. “A spoon.”
“No!” He shouts, startling the girl. “I mean. Ahem. Sorry. Sorry. A spoon will take too long, you see? And waste too much.”
“Oh what a pickle. What a jam,” she frets, biting her thumb. “Whatever shall we do?”
“Never fear, my dear. I’ll use my tongue.”
“Your…tongue?”
“I’ll drag it across every fold and crevice. Not a single speck of life-sustaining salt will go unclaimed.”
“…oh I don’t know…I still feel like we could use the spoon…”
“There’s no time,” he says, taking her hand in his. “And it’s the only way to be sure.”
“Well…
“Trust me.” He caresses her cheek with the other hand. “The way I’m trusting you.”
“Oookay,” she finally says, eyeing him uneasily. “But first you have to do something for me. A request.”
“Anything,” he says.
She leans down and whispers in his ear. “Let me suck your dirty toes.” Ω