When I moved into his apartment, I did not know that my love for him had already evaporated. Each morning, he strode across the kitchen’s chilly tiled floor, all broadness and sharp angles, smooth alabaster face, small cobalt eyes, clothed only in a bathrobe and arrogance. He soon picked up the habit of tutting when I didn’t grind his coffee before he woke up. I still believed I could transmute our life of kale breakfast smoothies and pedaling nowhere on exercise bikes into something resplendent because I did not discover what I craved until he left me. To gallop through soil barefoot, to leap and howl at the sturgeon moon, to heave on a dance floor from dusk to dawn with riotous strangers, incarnadine lipstick smeared down the column of my neck.