Cornish Pastie Territory
A solitary drop of sweat slipped gently off the end of my nose and fell, darkening the red dirt at my feet, as if my forehead were a leaky tap. The simple thought of water amid the state’s harsh aridity suddenly made my mouth dry, my tongue stuck to my teeth. At least I’m not covered in flies. I overhear somebody asking about this inside. The barman replies that where there are no cattle the flies are also absent. Still, there is a strong, unpleasant smell. Less barnyard, more unwashed human. Returning to my beer, I leave it behind for the acrid odor of pub floor and crushed cigarette butts.