He kisses me and it’s so wet. I can tell he’s been salivating.

“I want to fall asleep in your mouth,” I moan. We’re standing on the sidewalk outside of my apartment. I know he’s waiting for an invite up. I know by the way he licks his lips and stares like a whore directly into my eyes. I’m a woman. I’m attuned to these things.

“What?” He pulls away.

“Nothing.”

“You want to what in my what?” he asks again.

“Sorry.” I shake my head. “I have this thing with water.”

“A thing? With water?”

“I should go.” I gnaw on my lip, rifling through my purse for my keys.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing my wrist. “Can I watch?”

I pause, searching his face. I imagine him drenched. I imagine water droplets rolling off the rims of his foggy glasses; down his cheeks; and into his hot, wet mouth. I imagine his blonde hair slicked against his forehead, water soaking through his button-up shirt, the fabric sticking to his chest. “How long can you hold your breath?” I ask.

He cocks his head. “I’m not su—”

“Kidding,” I interrupt, although, I’m not entirely sure I am.

I’m scared to bring Andrew to my place because they don’t always react so well, and I really do like him—his blue eyes, how he studied marine biology in college, and how at dinner on our first date, the waitress refilled his water glass four (!) times. Afterwards, we went to the movies and he cried during the ending. I lapped the tears up off his cheek. He thought it was endearing but really, I was just getting off.

I decide to take a chance. He could be the one. We climb the six sets of stairs to reach my unit and I usher him quickly past the four-foot tall Zen garden waterfall installation behind my front door, the kitchen sink that is always turned to a slow drip, six fish tanks, four humidifiers, a hydroponic garden with three types of veggies: bell peppers, lettuce, and kale, through my bedroom, with the Queen-sized water bed covered in all blue bedding, and into the bathroom, my most sacred place. I shut the door behind us and turn on the sink and the shower. I pull my blouse over my head and Andrew puts his hands on my hips and starts kissing my neck. “No, no.” I push him away. “Not yet.”

Andrew sits on the toilet lid and watches as I shimmy off my jeans, slip out of my socks, and snap off my bra. His hand reaches out to paw at my nipples and I swat it away. “Wait,” I say. “You need to wait.” I unbraid my hair and shake it out, curly and chaotic. The shower water is getting hot, steam is fogging up the mirror, and the tub is nearly full. I dip my toe in the water. “It’s perfect.” I glance back at Andrew’s confused face, the erection pushing against his jeans. “Take your clothes off. It’s time.”

He jumps up from the toilet, fumbling with his shirt buttons and jeans zipper. I stop him when he’s down to his white briefs, white crew socks, and glasses.

“Stay just like that.” I pull aside the shower curtain and guide him under the shower head. Splashes of water light him up like fireworks, where they kiss the fabric of his underwear, splotches of wetness appear and spread. Soon, he’s soaked. “Oh god,” I whisper, “you’re amazing.”

We kiss under the showerhead. Water pours over our faces and gushes down our backs. I rub the palm of my hand against his wet underwear and he wraps his arms closer around me, creating a suction between our skin.

“Okay.” I pull back. “I’m going to finish.”

I drop to the bottom of the tub. My legs sprout out between Andrew’s feet, and I stay there submerged under the water, trembling with pleasure. Standing over me, Andrew scoots down his underwear, and when I finished, he did too, a healthy load splashing into the water above me. I stay under until my lungs start burning, my adrenaline kicks in, and my body shoots itself back above the surface, gasping for air. Andrew pulls me to my feet, cradles me against his chest. “You’re a little freak, Josie,” he whispers, and kisses the water off of my face and neck.

It takes six towels to mop up the water that spilled onto the bathroom floor—that’s how good our sex was. Some people break beds, but I flood apartments.

Andrew throws his socks and underwear in my dryer, and we sit on my bed, naked, drinking a couple glasses of wine. “Your hair is dripping onto the sheets.” He points to a big wet spot forming behind where I sat.

I pull my wet hair over to one shoulder and shrug. “I hate drying off.”

********************

Andrew and I have been…well…whatever you call this, for a couple of months now, and we’ve started to get creative. He fingered me in front of the shark tank at the Coney Island aquarium, and I gave him head inside an automatic carwash. He brought me on a trip to the Hamptons with his friends and each night we snuck down to the beach to have sex in the ocean. Once, while everyone else was out for brunch, we did it in the Airbnb pool.

Mostly, we stick to my apartment. Andrew brought me one of his old snorkels so I could stay underwater longer. It is my most prized possession. Each time I put my lips to the mouthpiece, I’m reminded that his sopping mouth and thrashing tongue were once in the same place. And now, sometimes, he goes underneath the water. Andrew is a perfect man with bubbles forming on his skin, his hair floating above his head, his face pale and fuzzy. The first time he went under was the first time I agreed to actual penetration. I rode him, and in the thrill of the moment, he accidentally finished inside of me, moaned underwater, and nearly choked to death. Still half-wet, he went down to the corner store to buy Plan-B.

We see each other almost every day now. I’ve been so infatuated with him that I keep forgetting to feed my fish and they’ve turned to cannibalism, the humidifiers in my bedroom ran out of water and I still haven’t refilled them, and my dryer is constantly full of wet towels.

********************

I’m expecting Andrew any minute now. It’s our six-month anniversary, though I’m not sure he’s realized it. He had a happy hour after work but is coming here once it’s done. To celebrate, I’ve bought myself a pale pink silk slip with lace trim along the neckline and hem. Wearing it, I step into the shower, letting myself soak. When I come out, I’m no longer a woman, but a nymph. The slip sticks to my skin, highlighting the curve of my waist and roundness of my breasts and revealing my nipples through the wet fabric. My hair drips but still holds some of its waves, and I push it all behind my back, revealing my dewy collarbones and slender, wet neck.

There’s a knock at the door. I run barefoot, dripping, to open it.

It’s not Andrew. Instead, I see my landlord—a fifty-something, Middle Eastern man whose name I perpetually forget. He greets me when we pass in the stairwell, but that’s the extent of our relationship. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that I’m drenched and practically naked. He barges through my door and heads straight to the bathroom. “Whatever you’re doing in here,” he grunts, shutting off the shower, “needs to stop.”

I fold my arms over my chest to hide my cold nipples. “I haven’t been doing—”

“The unit below has been complaining of leaks through their ceiling almost every night.” He gets to his knees and inspects the tile, as well as where the tile has started to separate from the wall and vanity. “Dammit, this is all warped.”

I grab a towel from the door and wrap it over myself. “I…I don’t know how this could’ve happened.”

“I’m gonna have to send a crew in here, replace the flooring, check the pipes, all of it.”

“No!”

I slap a hand over my mouth. He looks at me, registering my appearance for the first time since he entered. “It’ll take a few days, a week at most. And if I hear of one more leak, young lady,” he says, pushing himself to his feet, “you’re getting evicted.”

He leaves without another word, closing the door hard on his way out. Tears well up in my eyes, but I try to make them stop. Now is not the time.

Andrew arrives about twenty minutes later, and I tell him what happened.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, that sucks.” These are his wise words of comfort. “We could just watch a movie tonight, we don’t have to…you know.”

He hugs me and I lean against his chest, dampening his shirt. Something about him is not the same. “You smell like smoke.” I pull back, making a face. “Why do you smell like smoke?”

“I had a cig before I left the bar. What’s the big deal?”

“Um, it dries out your insides.”

Andrew laughs and runs a hand over his face. “Wait, are you serious? You’re not being serious, are you?”

“I’m serious.” I stick two fingers inside of his mouth. “Your tongue feels like sandpaper!”

He knocks my hand away. “So I’m not allowed to have a cigarette every now and then? That’s what you’re saying?”

I scoff. “It only goes against everything we believe in.”

“Everything you believe in.”

 I step back, and step back again, until the towel slips from my body and I fall against my bed. Tears refill in my eyes and I let them spring down my face.

“Oh, Josie.” Andrew sits beside me. “I’m sorry, I know you’ve had a rough day.” He hugs me loosely, trying to keep his distance because my clothes and I are soaking wet but he’s dry. “I won’t smoke before I come over if it bothers you so much,” he offers.

I nod against his shoulder.

“Do you want to change out of those clothes? You’re soaking the bed.”

So I am. I fall back until I’m lying flat, letting the water from my hair and body seep deep into the covers. “We can just throw it in the dryer since, apparently, you like everything so dry now.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Josie.” Andrew stands. “We can’t sleep in a soaking wet bed. This is ridiculous.”

“Maybe you can’t.”

“Alright, that’s it, I’m leaving.” He grabs his wallet, phone, and keys from my nightstand, and turns to me. “You can’t keep living like this. At some point you’re gonna have to dry off.”

I bury my face into a pillow and listen as his footsteps fade away, until, eventually, my front door slams shut and he’s gone.

Everything I loved was lost in a day.

********************

The handymen are here at eight o’clock the next morning.

It’s hard to let them into my bathroom, with their dirty jeans and grubby fingers. With each tile they rip up from the floor I wince, as if it were a part of me chipping away instead. This bathroom holds all my memories with Andrew, and as they tear out the shower, the tub, the sink, and the toilet, it feels like they are eliminating every remaining trace of our love.

Once the bathroom is unrecognizable, the landlord comes up to speak with them. From where I sit on my waterbed, I hear bits and pieces of their grumblings. It doesn’t sound good. Finally, the landlord comes to me to break the news, with his arms folded across his chest. “All the wood beneath the tile is rotten. I don’t know what the hell you were doing in there, but they’ve got to completely replace the flooring. You’ll be out of a bathroom for a week at least.”

I blink twice so he knows I hear him, but I don’t bother to respond otherwise.

He lets out a hissing sigh, turns, and leaves.

********************

Day four of construction. The past few days have been some of the hardest of my life. I carry the thirst with me everywhere I go—the longing to be submerged, the need to be soaked. My hair has grown brittle. My lips have grown chapped. My skin has become pale, shriveled, and pruned. I sit on my bed twiddling my thumbs, waiting for progress, when the unthinkable happens.

A pipe in the bathroom bursts, soaking through the new flooring. The handymen inform the landlord and I that they will need to tear everything out again and start from scratch. If I had any moisture left in my body, I’d cry.

At night, once the tired handymen and my furious landlord are gone, I lie awake in my bed, unable to sleep. I’m dry and itchy. My scalp is flaking. The bed sheets feel like nail files against my skin.

I can’t take this any longer.

I have to do something.

*********************

I buzz Andrew’s apartment a quarter after midnight and wait. A leaf falls from a tree branch and floats before my eyes, landing without a sound on the sidewalk. What I would give to be weightless as the leaf, suspended in water, floating.

I buzz his unit again. After a few seconds his voice comes through the intercom. “Who is this?” he says, words thick with sleep. I can imagine how he might look right now in his plaid pajama pants, hair stuck up on one side, eyes squinting without his glasses, hanging over the intercom.

“It’s me, Josie.”

“Josie,” he repeats. “Josie, Josie, Josie…” He swishes my name around in his mouth.

I try to push open the door, but it’s still locked. I put my face to the window. My breath fogs the glass as I see him coming down the hallway.

He opens the door and, like a dream, we’re standing together again on the sidewalk. His arms wrap around me. He kisses the top of my head. My insides churn.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he murmurs into the thick of my hair.

“You were right to be,” I sob tearlessly into his chest. “It’s been awful.”

He rubs the top of my back. “Is the bathroom still…?”

I nod. “And you. I missed you too.”

It begins to drizzle. The specks of water reach us still intact and sit atop our faces and hair. Andrew puts a hand under my chin and brings his lips to mine. The rain picks up, though neither of us seek cover. The drops become heavier, splattering on impact. My body accepts the rain, letting the water absorb into my skin. More, it seems to say. More. I kiss Andrew and the mesh of our saliva is turbulent and alive, like a wave between our lips.

More.

The rain sprays violently now, to the point where I can barely see the man in front of me. It’s as if I’m looking at him through streaked glass.

“Josie,” he yells over the roar of the water. “We’ve got to go inside.”

He tugs me through the door and up the four flights of stairs to his apartment. It looks just as I remembered it, as if the place had been captured in ice when I last left and only now thawed again. Andrew pulls a towel from his hall closet and pats it over his face and hair. He strips off his soaking pajama pants, the wet T-shirt, and wraps the towel around his waist. He doesn’t offer me one because he knows I don’t want one. Instead, I drip over his carpet, keeping my distance from his wooden coffee table, a stack of mail on the kitchen counter, and his leather couch.

The rain mashes itself against his windows, testing each panes’ integrity. I float toward the window to watch it, putting my hand on the glass as if I could feel the rain.

“Do you want something to drink?” Andrew pulls a bottle of wine from the fridge and inspects the label. “I have a Cabernet from 2020.”

“Sure.”

When I turn back to the window, the smacks have been replaced by an endless whoosh, and the rain is one thick stream, as wide as my eyes can see, like a waterfall; the drops indistinguishable. I peer down and can no longer see the sidewalk. All I see is the raging Hudson River, dark and wet and angry. “Andrew,” I call over my shoulder. “Can you always see the Hudson from your window?”

“The Hudson?” He finishes pouring our wine and walks towards me. “That’s like, three avenues away.”

The river is swelling, swelling, and swelling. It swallows bikes, cars, and street lamps. It’s angry. Hungry.

Andrew stops behind me and our wine glasses fall to the floor. I’m watching the way the red liquid burrows into the grooves of the carpet, riding each thread out to create a larger stain, when he yells, “Get away from the window!” 

He tackles me to the ground just as a wave crashes through the glass and begins to flood the apartment. When we stand back up, the water is up to our knees. Andrew’s wooden coffee table is fully submerged. Mail floats like lily pads on the surface of the water.

“We need to go higher,” he yells over the deafening whoosh. We trudge through the water, up to our hips now, to his front door. Andrew flings it open, and another deluge of water pours in from the hallway. “How is that possible!?” Andrew looks from the door, to the window, to me, the water now reaching my chest. “We need to get out. We need to swim.” With his hand clamped around my wrist, we paddle back to the window. “Grab my ankle,” he shouts.

I inhale a big gulp of air and swim down to his shin. Once I’m holding on, he dives under the current coming through the window, and swims out to the city with me in tow.

Floating in the flooded streets, Andrew grasps both my hands. We watch the water continue to pour into his fourth-floor window until it’s completely submerged, yet the tide rises higher.

“I’m sorry about your apartment,” I yell through the rain.

“At least we’re safe!”

The current pulls us down ninth avenue. The numbers on the underwater street signs grow smaller and smaller, and it feels as if we’re dancing. We drift and spin, in each other's arms, completely weightless in the torrent. My hair fans out in the water around me like the skirt of a gown. Andrew’s eyes are locked on mine. Our fingers intertwine. He pulls me closer, putting one hand behind my back. We waltz past our favorite date-night Italian spot, the bowling alley we went to for his brother’s birthday, and the mall at Hudson Yards we visited just to use the bathroom. He dips me under the claw of a crane in Chelsea, and we tango down the highline, remembering the sunny day we spent walking along it.

“Josie,” Andrew yells. “It’s pulling us to the Bay, we have to stop.”

“I don’t know how,” I yell back.

Andrew’s eyes scan the skyline. “There.” He points to the World Trade Center, its peak only a dozen feet above the water now. “Get on my back.”

He swims belly down and I lay flat over his back, my arms clinging around his neck. With strong, commanding breast strokes, he cuts diagonally through the tide, until we’ve reached the spire. It’s wider than we anticipated, and I slip from Andrew’s back as he mounts it. The current pulls me along, but he grabs my hand just before I’m out of reach.

“Hold on, Josie!”

But the water is wedging itself between our fingers. The tide is yanking me from him with force. I’m being torn in two.

“I love you, Andrew.” Water pours into my mouth, muddling my words. “I love you.”

I let my fingers slacken.

“You have to hold on, Josie! You’ll get sucked out to sea, I’ll lose you!”

The water is raging harder than ever now. I feel myself slipping away from him.

I allow myself one last look. His hair is drenched and slicked to his forehead. Beads of water roll down his cheeks. His blue eyes brim with tears.

“Amazing,” I whisper.

I let go.