The actor from The Danish Girl is at a community center pool, which is also an airport. Maybe we are in California. I'm swimming and my friend and former paramour dives into the pool, hands me a letter, it's typed on an old Italian typewriter, an Olivetti. He smoothes the hair over my forehead, kisses my brow. I miss him as he swims away. The actor sits in a lounge chair. I put my hand on his cheek, tell him I prefer to see him dressed up as a girl. He blushes, bows his head.
My former boyfriend is living in his old apartment in Portland, which is also a little of Danang. He's drunk and flipping through pages of Tolstoy. I sink my feet into pale blue carpet and watch as he ties a rubber hose around his arm, a needle in his mouth. He sits in a pool with his friend. Heroin waters the eyes of pool side swimmers. I don't try to stop him.
