He was storybook tall, dark, handsome. Loved jazz as I do. Took me to smoke-filled rooms where we listened to Joe, Arthur, Ella as we sat side by side; his manner formal, discreet, his clothes impeccable. He introduces me to his friends hosting a pool party where I ignore him to tread water with a stranger who describes his mundane job with Pacific Plate Glass, his open marriage of twenty years with a wife traveling the world searching for adventure, meaning, without him. A song I’d never heard before nor since ripples through the water, hums around our legs like cords of softest silk, accompanies his words inquisitive, interested, intimate spilling into the biting chlorine. Like a fisherman on a catch-less day, I remain haunted with the almost of it, dream even now of that anomalous presence in the deep end of the pool.