The Guest

“Mystery is a resource, like coal or gold, and its preservation is a fine thing”
-Tim Cahill

I first met Spouse when he came to visit my family one Christmas. We soon found out that he was a voracious water-drinker. He sometimes consumed a gallon a day and we all made sure that our guest constantly had some to hand. The jug was always filled, glasses were set aside for him and if he wanted bottled water we had some put by as well.
He slept in my old attic bedroom- he had been cheerful about climbing a ladder to bed each night. I stayed with Mater in the downstairs bedroom.
Weeks later, after he was gone again, the house was sadly silent, especially that first evening.
In the morning I went with a forlorn sigh to the attic to see if he had unwittingly left anything behind. A guest's recently vacated room is one of the saddest things in the world.
I found a single glass of water, filled to the very brim, on the bedside table. Suddenly I was dumbfounded into recollection.
A memory slapped at me: I had partially woken up during that night, filled a glass of water for Spouse, climbed the ladder with one hand on the rungs and brought to Spouse the gift of a drink without spilling one drop.
That would have all been perfectly acceptable, except that by the time I was precariously ascending the ladder, Spouse was quite likely unpacking his bags in California and missing Ireland.
I risked all to bring, in my half-sleep, a glass of water to somebody who was no longer there. One should do no less for one's house guest and future Spouse.