“Being with you . . . is like holding water in my hands,” she murmured, and he furrowed his brow, still waiting. “I want you to stay here . . . with me . . . and I know you can’t. I know you won’t. I’m dying for a drink, and it’s like holding water in my hands,” she repeated, enunciating each word. “I’ll never get enough to quench my thirst.”
