"Some time in the early hours of the morning, I find myself staring at him in the dim bedroom light, at the strong, lithe form of him. His back has a curve to it like the sweep of a boat. I steal out a hand to stroke it, wondering whether he's awake, when he turns and his eyes glint at me. "Do you sail?" I say, half sleepily. "No. Used to row, though." "Huh." I nod my head: That makes sense."