I think he is made of water. A spirit from the deep. The flawless, tight, muscles of his back built from long nights, and countless laps— He was shy, but his body was not. Nor should it be. Liquid wood framed his being, a carved master work, waterlogged as if eternally adrift. I am eating a sweet madeleine when he texts me - what are you doing? -eating an orange, about to take a shower. -can I join? - the eating or my shower? He was sweeter than the orange we shared warmer than the water falling around us.