Water

Sometimes, a glass of tap water tastes better than any other drink I can bring to mind. Sometimes, water seems to have an almost alien unreality -- insubstantially transparent, but sharply reflective, drily sliding off the sides of the glass as I tip it one way then the other, but quintessentially wet.

In the middle of a hot night, I get up and half see, half feel my way to the kitchen in the dark, draw a glass of water and gulp it down to replace the sweat now soaking into the sheets. It's half gone before I can taste it, and that taste is just my dry mouth finding itself again.

The swimming pool, choppy with the waves of children, glints bluely at the sky, calling me for a swim, but I don't want to right now.

The ocean, spread out beyond my apartment window and across town, a light, foamy edge, turning to colorless brightness in the afternoon sun and disappearing into a dusty haze before it meets the horizon (which will be exposed, like it or not, when the sun goes down).

Tears, just waiting for the right moment (and sometimes the wrong one).