Through a music-less milonga in the park, I watched over my partner's shoulder the pinprick incendiaries flick from the bushes, and fizzle a moment later. I finally understood the origination of fairies.
When not even the possibility of fairies could distract me from my thirst, I drank from a bubbler at the corner of the park. A bubbler. Not even in Italy, where public fountains drip from ever bridge and piazza, had I heard such a name. But now, forever, I will call them "bubblers."