I went over to his table.

“Are you the young man that saved my friend’s life?” I asked.

“I saved your friend’s life?”

“That woman you pulled out of the water—I’m her friend.”

When the waiter came, I ordered an espresso and sat down at the table with the boy.

I call him a boy because he was no more than twenty-three years old—for me, that’s a boy these days. His arms in the short-sleeved white shirt were slim, but he looked very strong.

“Oh, that,” he said. “She says I saved her, but when she went down and I swam over to her, I couldn’t find her. I dived but still couldn’t find her. Suddenly this woman was clutching my calf. She really fought to be saved, and I pulled her up. She saved herself, if you ask me.”

I drank my espresso.

“How do you feel in your skin?”

“I don’t understand, Senora. What do you mean?”

I am always Senora, always.

The young man is still looking at me with dark, calm eyes.

“What do you mean, Senora?”

“How does it feel,” I ask, “to be the most beautiful man in the world?”