He lifted the last glass out of the sink and held it beneath the faucet pouring forth the liquid:
Water, dancing over his hands, the glass, sliding into the drain below.
Such water does not arouse much notice for others, but he finds himself mesmerized by this fluidic force. It captures light, changes it, shifts it, makes it disappear completely. Objects submerged in water must immediately respect its movement, they must bend to its dictation.
He felt the crystal flow pushing on his hand, on the flesh and the muscles and bones beneath it, pushing them down, rolling over them, dictating. Mindless of its target. He instinctively wanted to push back against it, but the smoothness of its command and texture weakened his will to resist. He loved this sensation knowing that in the same body of water there can be gentle lulling and forceful torrent. He rubbed his fingers over the curved surface of the flute, using the water to vanquish the evidence of the night. Her lipstick upon the rim, her fingerprints around the neck, all of these remnants of their libatious cheers clinging like sediment to the glass. He pressed against the clear surface, squeaking the new and clean, closing the cycle of vanishment.
This 'clean', Man learned very early on. He learned that to remove his body of impurities, he must immerse himself in water, he must submit to its properties. Modern Man has turned his back on the purity water offered. Modern Man lathers himself in dyes and perfumes, but still, at the end of this ritual, uses H2O to remove these artificial potions from his body.
Not him, however. He exalted the sacrosanct nectar. He respected water's supremacy for he wanted it for his own. Reaching across the sink, he twisted the knobs to extinguish the flow. One does not waste such power.
He dried off the glass, placing it back in the cupboard. Exiting the kitchen, he turned into the living room, grabbing the remote off of the coffee table. With a flick, he doused the lights, tossing the handheld onto the couch. The satin glow of his fish tank wobbled like a gigantic areola, throbbing along the ceiling and across the wall. He walked down the hall, to the stairs, ascending each step one at a time, with a tap to the banister with his fingers. Stopping midway, he bent down, picking up her black silk negligee that had been discarded on the way up. He rejoined his ascent, fingering the frail material. In transit, a thought popped into his mind.
"She'll probably want this when she gets up."
He stopped, pausing for a second, and chuckled to himself while staring at the closed door at the top of the stairs.
"...if she's able to get up..."
*this continues on here