Five Hundred

That was the number of steps we climbed. The city was gradually fading away into a forced silence. The wind was parched by the yellowing dust. Our tongues were parched too. We climbed a steep stairway used five hundred years back by the slaves. The king's path was different of course.

And when thoughts of salvation began to creep into happy spaces in out minds, we found this booth. It was possibly drier than our tongues. It broke into a sardonic grin. And we panted. Perhaps the climb was not yet over.