“Hello,” said the voice, its breath propelling a path towards him through the steam. “Thought I had the room to myself. Nice isn’t it—steam before dream?”

There was something exotic about the speech, more in the lilt than the dialect, but the Rose, who was a listener by nature, recognised it immediately as Indian.

“Yes. Relaxing.” He kept his reply short, caught midway between his old habit of remaining detached, and his new-found openness. By the time he’d realised he was isolating—as they called it at the clinic—and relented, the stranger spoke again, and he was glad of the second chance to interact.

The man stood up and moved in a circle around the room, allowing the vapour to flow over his body, chatting all the while. The Rose saw he was young, probably in his twenties, and there was a certain feline grace about him—the way his legs moved and the manner in which his feet made contact with the tiled floor.

During one of his circuits of the room, he stopped directly in front of the Rose. About three feet separated them and, without pausing in his monologue, he drew his right foot up and placed it against his left thigh, behind his scrotum, which was considerable. He straightened his left leg, rested his left arm on his hip, and raised his other arm above his head. Unlike the Rose, who had his loincloth wrapped sedately around his waist, the youth wore his around his neck like a college scarf. He was perspiring heavily, and the aroma he gave off was both rich and strange. The hand draped over his hip wore a silver bracelet—a Sikh wedding band—and the Rose was looking at this and pondering its significance when the youth, using his free hand, whipped the loincloth from his neck and, with a sharp flick of his wrist, snapped it in front of the Rose’s face. The crack echoed around the room.

“Are you staring at me?” he demanded.

Regaining his composure the Rose said, “No. I was . . . appreciating you.”

“That’s all right, then.” The youth looked at the Rose and smiled. “Are you gay?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just like that—are you?”

“I’ve never thought about it. Probably nothing. Like Jesus.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’d say you were gay.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because you’re so sad.”

“I don’t feel sad.”

“Maybe not, but your eyes give you away. They’re sad.”

The Rose couldn’t think what to say, so he didn’t reply. The youth, swaying his torso on his stretched leg, continued speaking. The Rose thought he resembled a young tree, and wondered how long he could balance this way. It added to the tension in the room. The tree spoke. “My eyes are sad too. We all have them.”

“Do you?”

“People say.”

“People say so many things.”

“Do so many things, too.” He paused. “Are you married?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it’s my lot in life. Every man I open up to seems to go off and get married.”