[ PI ] “ Every character should want something , even if it is only a glass of water . '' Write the story of a character that wants a glass of water .

Warning: Probably NSFW language, depending on your W. 
 
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 Water. In a glass. With the sweat trickling down the outside, outlining my fingertips; with the ice tinkling; with the straw still half-wrapped for some sort of dubious sanitary purpose. That's what I want. That's *all* I want. 
 
 Max looks at me with his puppy eyes and dump-me-soon helpless sympathy. `` I'm trying to get someone's attention, Gretch.'' 
 
 *Try harder, * I want to say, but I'm not a bitch. Though if I sit out here on the patio for five minutes longer without *a god-damned glass of water* that may well change. So I try to smile pretty, to hide my teeth so I do n't bite his head off, and I feel the sweat trickling down my back, into the hip-length cast that anchors me to the fat-tourist shopping scooter. 
 
 `` Would you mind going inside and seeing if you can get someone to come out?'' I need him, at least until the cast comes off. 
 
 `` Anything for you, sweetie,'' he says. 
 
 While I wait, I drip sweat on my phone and play a game. The patio is deserted, but the restaurant proper is up eleven steps and it's the only place open during siesta. The apartment we're renting is overrun with roaches; I would n't cook there even if I could. So I ride in my little scooter and I curse the Mayans who had the nerve to let their temples get overgrown and the Mexican doctors who could n't turn a fractured femur into a sprain, and I wait, and I sweat, and I stew, and I think of all the ways I'm going to kill Max when I can walk away from the crime scene. 
 
 Much like I'm waiting right now. 
 
 Eventually, Max comes out trailing a thick-set waiter with a smile on his face and a plastic bottle in one hand. He says something that I most sincerely hope is an apology and he sets the bottle before me. 
 
 The bottle is open. 
 
 *Do n't drink the water*, the Internet says. And I do n't want -- do n't need, *ca n't possibly get* the shits with a hip cast. 
 
 Sweat drips down the bottle's side, puddles on the table before me. 
 
 *Montezuma's Revenge. * 
 
 Did he open it just now? Or did he refill it from the tap? 
 
 My head is swimming -- at least *something* gets to swim -- but I know for a fact that the feeling of shit running down a hip cast is something I desperately want to avoid. 
 
 `` Señor,'' I say. `` Un otro... bottle... oh, crap.'' I point to the place where the cap should be, mime screwing it on. 
 
 The smile disappears like I've just leveled a gun at him. His brown face reddens and he lets off a stream of what I can only assume is *not* apologies. I try to apologize, say it's nothing personal. He wheels away, stomps toward the stairs. 
 
 I eye the bottle. Max stands above me, looking down. `` Gretch, maybe --'' 
 
 The waiter comes back, grabs the bottle. Droplets of water fly into the air, splatter on the table. I swear I can hear them sizzle. He wheels and stomps away. If I were myself I'd follow him, try to apologize. But I'm a scooter riding invalid. 
 
 `` Max?'' I grind my teeth. `` Sweetie? Tell me the only open place in this entire godforsaken fucking town did n't just deny me service because I wanted to be sure the water was n't going to poison me.'' 
 
 `` I tried,'' he says. 
 
 `` Try harder.'' I do n't want to snap, but I ca n't help it. The heat, the dehydration, I barely know what I'm saying. 
 
 `` C'mon, Gretch. Stores will be open --'' 
 
 I'm about to pass out, I swear. Spots in front of my eyes, world narrowing down. I might die right here on this ridiculous red scooter. `` I do n't care if you have to give him a blowjob. I need a drink.'' 
 
 `` Jesus.'' He stares down at me, hands on his hips. `` Jesus, Gretchen.'' He starts to turn toward the stairs again, then turns back to me. `` You know what? I'm sorry you fell. I'm sorry you're thirsty. I'm sorry this entire vacation has been a disaster. But I'm done putting up with this shit.'' 
 
 Instead of going toward the stairs, he goes the other direction, down the dusty street toward our shitty apartment. Toward the airport beyond it, maybe. 
 
 `` Max --'' 
 
 He does n't look back. *Shit. * 
 
 I turn the scooter's key. Maybe I can catch him. Make it right somehow. He ca n't leave me here, can he? 
 
 Can he? 
 
 The scooter moves three feet. Another four inches. 
 
 And then dies. 
 
 *Fuck. *
