Usually,
bringing a drink is never a problem—
a quiet companion in my bag,
waiting patiently for my thirsty throat.
Today was different.
A raised voice,
rules turning into a hammer.
I was scolded, it was confiscated,
told to throw it away—
as if thirst were a small crime.
I placed it outside,
planning to take it home later,
a simple promise
between me and my patience.
But evening returned me empty-handed.
The bottle was gone.
Not the wind.
Not time.
Only a bitter certainty—
that woman,
with eyes that never lowered,
hands too quick
for something not hers.
This annoyance boils,
like water I never got to drink.
My anger drips onto the floor of reason,
turning into sharp sentences
that want to scream,
yet I hold them back.
Because sometimes,
a small loss teaches something bigger:
that patience does not mean forgetting,
and anger may visit—
as long as it does not stay.
