Anyone who has ever had to walk through heat or been involuntarily trapped in its furnace, without shade and without a last sip of liquid, will surely remember the downright lust, the feeling of merciful resurrection, as soon as first the lips are moistened, then the palate and throat are filled with wetness and - flowing on forever - the sweetly mouth-watering stream of pure water overflows. It is precisely at this moment that the delirium of the dehydrated person is finally allowed to flow into the deep trance of a fully breastfed infant.
The wife of an old friend who owns a house in Tuscany loves to spend the whole summer in a plastic paddling pool. She doesn't seem to care that she seems to dissolve completely in the process, her skin, increasingly burnt by the midday sun and crumpled up in the water, soon resembling a sea cucumber that has sunk to the bottom of the sea. Or the cheesy goo on a wrinkly newborn. She lies down naked in the morning in the water, still cool from the night, which is only rarely changed during all the weeks of her stay, only leaves the tub in an emergency, indeed prefers to drink and eat there, only to emerge from the pool in the evening with the gentle night crickets and the first twilight, as if rebaptized from day to day, a Venus, all virginal, lured by the dry canvas of sleep. My boyfriend recently confessed to me how much he now hated this constantly rippling, lustfully sighing excess, his wife's embarrassing whim; that he was ashamed when spontaneous visitors appeared, that he often even lied that she wasn't there at the moment, that she had gone to the beach or for a stroll somewhere. I asked him why he couldn't talk to her about it, knowing her, she would understand him. He shook his head in resignation.
He had invited me over that summer, presumably to make it easier to escape his wife in the children's pool. I thought the naked women was actually quite cute, even though I didn't immediately recognize her. When I politely asked her why she didn't prefer the cool, deep sea to the mini pond on the terrace, given her real love of the water, she said that the half-hour drive there alone was too much torture for her, that she was getting downright panicky, even hysterical, because she was afraid of drying out like a frog. I found the frog's fear of death completely understandable. I even suspected a severe, perhaps prenatal, intrauterine trauma suffered by this mermaid, whose softened vulva now seduced by my gaze aroused in me a hot desire for oceanic fusion, which at the same time was mixed with quiet disgust and immediately shrank again.
When my friend took me down to a small, beautiful bay in the afternoon, I dared to say that he was actually a really lucky guy. He could do anything, even the forbidden, even the fling, the wild adventure, she would never notice in her water coma. At least, in my opinion, he was under no obligation to watch her progressively lyse. He blushed a little and smiled. After that, he didn't say another word about this marital dilemma.
The night before I left - the wife was already in bed, even her snoring sounded like gurgling water - my friend and I drank one glass too much. I don't remember how I got to bed. But I woke up to a scream that sounded so desperate and distressing that I immediately jumped up and rushed downstairs despite the nauseous dizziness and the pounding of my skull. I saw her standing there, lost. In a puddle that had remained: my friend and I, I realized at a glance, had obviously shredded the Grail of Water Greed at night - wantonly.
Author: Titus David Hamdorf, Berlin, Germany
Translated with DeepL.com
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