Tap

He turned the tap and waited for the familiar whoosh of emptiness. For him this has become a ritual. It's been years since even a drop trickled down that spout. He never bothered to think why. For him it was just a ritual now. It all started on one sweltering summer day when he wanted a sip to slake his thirst. The tap was like a mirage in the hot afternoon sun. He scalded his fingers touching it. All that he wanted was a cool splash. All that came out was a warm gust of air. He fiddled with the tap again. Frustration goaded him to kick the tap. But he couldn't. Instead he became obsessed with it. He wanted to drink the first drop that comes out through that tap. When will that day be? He doesn't know. All that he knows is that the chances of water coming out of a disconnected tap is as rare as the drop of water for which he was waiting.