After a long, thirsty day I decided to perhaps free a Jackson from the nearest ATM. I was bone dry and though I was still considering l'eau du sink, I was of a certain feeling (the kind that favors water of a lesser gray persuasion). The matter would soon resolve itself for me via a lady stranger. Madame of the Lake, in a white spring dress and short, straw-blonde hair; she no sooner took the problem and sorted its pieces than I took her pieces into account without realizing what she had just done for me. That is, my savior, my clairvoyant angel, so informed of my sinful, desert tongue that held its own Ark and was much overdue for a Deluge, had left for me a resolution as clear as a plastic cup filled with ice.
Parked on top the very traffic drum I removed from the middle of the sidewalk; as if knowing of her offering, I had to set up the altar for her tithe, she left me ice in a plastic cup. From no doubt, farther a distance she had purchased a drink and in the happening of a walk and the repeated expansion of two lungs that pulled out of an orange straw, the beverage, she made her way to me. My distress sung to her ears, in melodies that warmed her to heed my call. It was the reverse relationship between sailor and siren, where the three avian women sail out to the voice of the shipwrecked Odysseus. And there it was to be, a drink for a thirsty soul.
In the sprite-ful spirit that defined the image as negligible when obedience to thirst is to be primarily considered, I knew I would pick up that cup and thank my mermaid. Cherished, Mother of Lancelot, I'd dare not refuse. I saw her from my shop window. And the ice, like diamonds in a crystal glass, hailed lustrous invitations to me. The shop was already closed so my river nymph was all but too timely. As I pulled down the gate and locked up, I noticed I am already the owner of my anonymous inheritance. I notice that no one considers the gift that could easily be as much theirs as it is my possession. However, they did not receive the affair as I had. To any other passer-by on E9th Street, that plastic cup could've been placed on that traffic drum by as much a disagreeable source as their imagination may allow. My thirst and I are of a more intimate understanding, therefore we drink.
My Jessica Christ drank something involving watermelon. That or I fancy her lips are watermelon flavored and from the straw (which I removed with the lid) the ice somehow absorbed this attractive memento. In any case, my thirst and I were closer to satisfied. My Lady Niagara had left me quenched.
If I have not mentioned that this straw-haired, aqua-philanthropist was in fact very attractive, it is only because I wanted to pay appropriate tribute to her deed before acquiring for you, impressionable, physical details. Before continuing I will now also mention my sensitivities which run quite confluent to that of the other passer-bys of E9 Street; who are without my shop window and what we, behind it, were prospectively televised. I would, like any of those passer-bys, have ignored Lilandra's Crystals had I missed the prelude. If a plastic cup filled with ice had appeared sans my knowing who placed it there, I would have taken a very parched, uptown commute. But being that she was pretty enough and I complimentarily, shallow enough, I drank.
Jessica Christ will be physically gauged by my easiness and readiness to drink from her. Wine made water and flesh made cubic congelation of that same wine. You will find me quite narrow when women are concerned. It is not any Godiva that will make a Tom of me. To say I am picky is to say champagne is liquid, it is only the initial generalization from which to begin. But perhaps it may have been influenced by the thirst as well as the excitement I usually feel at the end of a work shift that bids me a euphemistic view. I, no doubt was ecstatic of my work day's end and water was on my mind, as well as beautifying anyone who delivered any of the two. Still, I am of the opinion I got good enough a glance to know gorgeous from gorgon. And from that opinion I will attest, she was pretty enough. In fact, our heroine, the blonde Aspen Matthews was attractive enough that had she walked up to me, as a stranger and kissed me, made out with me, I'd do no more than offer very little protest. I'd accept her lips and our salivating tongues sliding off one another like two orcas in love. I'd be a hypocrite to then refuse Holy Water from this Temple on which I'd gladly prey.
Had she'd been a man, a less appealing woman, or a child, I'd have no problem with making due with my dry throat 'til a South Bronx apartment door was opened and a walk to a refrigerator provided me that overdue deluge. The horror of a child, I shutter. Children are the worse of all possibilities since they care the least, germs and hygiene are at best distractions to them, easily ignored. You'd have a harder time becoming ill washing your face with a handful of phlegm than drinking from the same plastic cup as a child. Circumstance being as welcoming as it was, I was deemed fortunate and presently, grateful.
Thus my anonymous donator is thanked most amicably. In a white spring dress and straw-blonde hair she continued on, as the evening was as young as it was blooming with distressed sailors. Will you read this, from wherever you may happen to be, if ever your reading eyes do stray across this entry, know this my darling, that I drank down to the last cube. I am yours, ever quenched.
