Thirst
Melissa Dennihy
Now that things are as bad as they are, it’s shameful, and almost incomprehensible, to think about what we used to do. Pouring out half a bottle because it had gone lukewarm in the car on a sunny afternoon. Filling an entire bucket to clean the floor. Leaving cups by the children’s beds every night, night after night, just to find them untouched every morning, except for the occasional fruit fly that would be floating atop the surface, drowned. I like to tell myself I was never extravagantly wasteful. We never used a sprinkler system for the lawn, back at the house. I taught the kids years ago to urinate in the shower rather than wasting a flush. When things first started getting bad—like, can’t ignore it anymore bad—we stopped bathing the dog and let the rain do that job. Lots of people were still taking their dogs to groomers then. The chihuahuas with their little pink bows, black labs with shining coats, terriers with plaid kerchiefs tied around their necks. An embarrassing dead giveaway of what had been wasted on them. But still, every drop counts, right? That’s the slogan, isn’t it? 55
