Dead center of a Sunday, Pohamba singing in the shower, doorless shower, trickly spigot. Hot water rare. It spouts forth now only in the middle of the day, when it’s the last thing you want, but since it’s so rare, you’ve got to love it. The rapture of wasting water in a drought. Pohamba slathered up and screeching Please, please, please, please.
On a rock near the spigot, a Standard Four waits, a bored valet. Over his arm, a towel; in his hand, a cup of cold tea.