Why does the coldest water in the house always come out of the bathroom sink, never the kitchen faucet? It makes sense to me that water seems colder coming from the garden hose, because I only drink from the hose when I’m outside on a hot summer day. It’s cold by comparison of course. But what is the allure of the water in the bathroom, even when that room is not hot and steamy?
Is it because the water in that private little room seems forbidden, because that’s a place meant only for washing up, or taking care of business, or sneaking in some shower sex—not for the simple pleasure of drinking water with naked hands, not so much as a glass in sight? Or is it only my bathroom that has such delicious, icy-cold water, while yours delivers the stuff at ordinary room temperature?
If your bathroom has boring water, I’m sorry. Because there’s a primal satisfaction in slurping water from a cupped palm, a guilty gratification in the rivulets that slip between your fingers when you know you should be conserving. I could use a glass, but that would spoil the spontaneity. I never know when the achy chill in my hands from the sudden rush of icy water will stir the desire to find out what it would taste like on my tongue, what it would feel like poured deep inside.
Maybe this act takes my very DNA back to memories of the ancients from which I sprang, bent over a rushing stream, reaching in and scooping out this thing we cannot live without. If not for that long ago curve of flesh cradling that icy, clear, mineral-sweet liquid, I would not be here.
Is that why a dog drinks water out of the toilet instead of the bowl in the kitchen?