This morning, in a fit of immediate thirst, and in a rather uncharacteristic moment of indiscrimination, I drank a splash of water from the bathroom faucet, in my cupped hands, rather than walking the 14 miles to the kitchen for an actual glass of Evian.
One time I drank from the kitchen faucet when there was no alternative. I used a glass that time, and the amount of water was perhaps just a few ounces, probably a bit more than what I drank from my palms today.
Why is it that the bathroom water tasted … different?
Now, my hands are always clean, because I drink so much water that I make at least a dozen trips to the ladies room a day and thus wash them at least that many times (yeah, I do it at home, kids, in hot water, with soap, even when no one’s watching!), so I’m certain my hands had nothing to do with the way the water tasted.
I came out of the bathroom scowling, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, and plodded to the kitchen, saying, “Jesusfuckingchrist. Why does it taste like that? I may as well have just dunked my head in the toilet and gone to town … like a dog!”
Taxi looked up from the newspaper he was reading, regarded me over the top of his reading glasses, and said, with more than just a drop of disdain, “Excuse me?” Pushed his coffee cup across the kitchen table for a refill, not once taking his stony eyes off my reddened face. And refused to answer my question.
So now I’m up to my neck in hot water, and damn it, it doesn’t taste too good.