It's like touching very still water. If you can let your hand rest lightly on the surface you can feel yourself suspended there. Press too deeply though, and you'll sink as quickly as a stone. I've kept myself suspended, exquisitely suspended, like a messiah, walking upon still waters before a storm. There must be an easier way to find what I need with someone. I can't continue this constant balancing act. Especially not with the constant reminders that I'm trying to walk a line that wasn't meant for me. It doesn't matter if we screw on the balcony, or between the sheets. Because when I wash his hair in the shower, he doesn't wash mine back. It doesn't matter that I'm the first person he calls to tell any news he ever has, if he doesn't want to hold my hand. It doesn't matter that he isn't with anyone else. Because he still isn't with me. Is there still a ripple in the pool if someone gets out, but no one notices that she's leaving?