William stared at the empty glass on the table and felt sick to his stomach. Not because he didn’t like the taste of the tap water and not because it was poisoned, but because he knew that every glass of water he would ever drink from that moment on would have a molecule of water in it that he had, at some point, already drunk. He had performed the necessary calculations and figured that he had been alive long enough for this to be the case. Now, however painfully, he would have to live with the fact that drinking water, that most essential action to human life, would never again be new and fresh. It would always be a repeat.
He had not, however, performed the same calculations for alcohol, so he willed himself to the bar on the corner and took solace in the reality that he probably had some twenty or so years before he would need to cross that proverbial bridge.
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