I was soaking in a steaming tub, waiting for Tad. He’d left no instructions that morning.
The house was dark and I was drinking a very good red wine. On the floor I’d scattered images of architect Saha Hadid’s buildings, notably the Heydar Aliyev center in Baku, a daring, seemingly continuous curve, all undulating and sinuous surfaces. There was one particularly deep slope in the front of the structure. This low point was lit majestically in the image, and in that yellow orange glow of what seemed to me celestial light, I acknowledged my own peaking twists since meeting Tad. I shut my eyes and dozed in the steam, letting my shoulders sink. As the water touched my eyes, I heard him.
There was a slight breeze from the apartment door opening. It stirred the air and one of the photos turned
