OPINION: I’m A Water Fountain. Why Don’t You Want To Touch Me Anymore?
You’ve passed me hundreds of times, and you’ve touched me more than I can count. I would be lying if I said I didn’t always crave those brief moments of contact between us, your lips close to mine, my fluid draining into your thirsty mouth.
Our encounters weren’t always so intimate, but I didn’t care. Just feeling the breeze of your backpack-laden body rushing through my little corridor was enough to make the water cooler inside me buzz with ecstasy. Yes, I was always jealous when you went to the fourth floor bathroom to release…tension, but I always knew you’d return to me, that you’d come back for more. I don’t feel so certain anymore.
At first, when you came back in August, you drew down your veil to once more draw your lips close to mine. But then your eyes glanced up and you read something which made shudder with horror. They placed the sign above me, branded me with a scarlet ‘A’, and now you walk by as if I am no more than a stain on your conscience.
I saw you look at your fingers in disgust, and curl your lip, as if I had polluted you. As if I was carrying some sort of contaminant, some sort of deadly virus.
And then, worst of all: You sought comfort from the new guy, the hand sanitizer station smirking at me from the opposite wall. You let him explode all over your hands, knowing I stood witness. You rubbed your hands together, intermixing his lustful gift with the warm flesh of your hands, the very hands which had once rested against my body. With his alcoholic stench you burned away the memory of me, of all our previous exchanges. The times I quenched your desire.
Now, you can’t even spare me a glance, or a sympathetic caress. All I know is the cold embrace of your BC Lookaway, and I am enveloped, left shivering. Why do you deprive me? Why deny me the love we wrought? Use me once again. Let our lips meet once more.