The day before yesterday, it rained. Not an everyday occurance in summer, so the everyday shifted. In the middle of the day, my hair still shower-damp, dark clouds became something to plan for.
Some were very excited. They opened their windows to its smell and sound. At the same time, they hoped they wouldn't have to walk anywhere.
I ran from the car to the coffee shop, and inside I gulped a few glasses of water. My shirt was well hydrated.
I went to dinner with a friend. I decided it was a day for hot soup, but I also ordered iced green tea. I gulped at the tea, even though it didn't taste right.
She tried a sip. Neither of us could identify the flavor.
In May We Be Forgiven the secret to good (read: indestructible) cookies is a tablespoon of warm water. The narrator suspects his soul is made of brackish water. Having read him for the past three hundred pages, his suspicions seem well-founded.
In summer it's a pleasure to have hot coffee in the sun. Though I know someone who drinks gallons of juice at all times of year, instead. One can imagine his body as a water feature. Nothing could remain insoluble. And yet he suffered for weeks with kidney stones.