WATER

I opened the fridge door and grabbed the lone orange soda from amidst the wilting lettuce and shriveled mushrooms, with full intentions of guzzling it right after I prepped my coffee for the next morning. I looked at the water level through the glass indicator on the side of the machine, reached over, and flicked on the faucet and nudged the lever over to the cold zone and let it run till the neck of the tap was frosty with condensation. This being mid-December, the temperature of the water is absolutely perfect for drinking, but I was still focused on my orange soda that hadn't been cracked yet sitting on the counter. Knowing that I didn't want to have to fill this thing again tomorrow, I reached for a large mason jar big enough to fill the reservoir. I put the jar under the tap and filled it halfway, swirled it about and dumped it. I did this several times not knowing why because it's such a waste of precious resources. By the third time I could feel the glass between my fingers getting cold and the condensation was building between my appendages.

Just the feeling of the cool, crisp water in my hand made me thirsty, and not the type of thirsty an orange soda could quench—the type of thirst only quenchable from a garden hose. My jar was full. I put the wet glass container to my lips and tilted my head back. Praise be to God for the abundance of such a perfect beverage on our blue planet. I guzzled from that mason jar till it was nearly at the bottom. I could see the reflection of my distorted kitchen light through the thick glass at the bottom of the jar. I refilled it, and not with the intentions of putting any of it in my coffee machine. I drank again. And again. Then filled my coffee machine. I felt happy and a little closer to something I couldn't explain, but something! I love water in all its natural, unadorned perfection.