5
We Sink When We Swim
He swims now, back and forth, at night. Nothing special, just the breast stroke—it is all he can do. He panics when he puts his foot down, has misjudged it and there is nothing there.
He steps out from the conservatory. The plastic doors warp in the heat, cracking and groaning their displeasure, and do not shut easily. He wrestles with them until he hears them click.
Moonlight brushes his skin and he looks down to see how brightly he is lit, the folds of his flesh are desert hills moving from light to shade. He pads across the patio, hoping not to hear the crunch of a snail underfoot, or to feel the squelch of a slug. This has happened before. It was like stepping into the warmth of freshly expelled dog s**t. He could wear slippers, but the thrill of the nudity i
