Rose Water

Hiss of spray speckles the face with tiny, sweet smelling, refreshing droplets. Under the constant flow of drying air from the plane's fans, the water soaks quickly into my skin, feeding it with moisture. It's a temporary reprieve. The air conditioning begins its work on my skin again immediately. Inside this flying box of circulating air, I have flashes and pangs of being trapped, of claustrophobia. Another couple of sprays of rose water, this time on my neck and my arms. Some of the droplets catch on the hair on my arms, like bulbous insects on early morning dew covered leaves. I rub it in with my hands, soothing my palms as well this time. The small metal lid goes back on the 100ml atomiser bottle, sanctioned by airport security. I hold it up to the light and watch the liquid sway inside as I swirl the bottle around. It is clear through the porcelain translucence and I wonder exactly how much rose is in the rose water. An image of petals falling from a rose bush onto the surface of a pond appears in my mind's eye, quickly replaced by boots stomping on a collection of dead roses, droplets of essence falling through a grating into water below in a well.