He's standing there with soft steam surrounding him, skin slicked by the warm water sliding down upon his shoulder. Meandering drops trickle a crooked line down his legs, barely having time to pool at his feet before draining away. But as one droplet slides across the slightly sloped tile and plummets down unseen dark pipes leading it far away, another is released from above to follow the same course. Out of the pipe above, falling onto his neck, washing down his back. It follows the gentle, smooth curve of his butt, losing momentum, trickling down his hamstring. Imperceptible amounts of it gather in tiny hairs there while the rest of it rolls along. It is fulfilling its destiny down the back of his calf until it reaches the tile under his bare feet and gets whisked even further by gravity to those unseen and seldom imagined places it will finally meet its rest.

One is lost, but another exactly the same takes its place. Until he chooses to turn the faucet that controls it all and bring it to an end.

Turning in the mist, he bows his head under the nozzle head and revels in the feel of the warm, soothing liquid as it splatters upon the crown on his head, running through his short dark hair and then dividing. Half of it traces a line down his spine, half courses across his face - weaving through his heavy brows, wetting his thick lashes, caressing his still sculpted cheekbones and trickling across a lower lip that tries to conceal a set of slightly crooked teeth. From there, that half falls and lands upon his chest, weaving again and warming everywhere it graces until it too reaches the end.

He's lost. Absorbed in his own thoughts, memories, and calming cleansing of the water, he's content. He's released, and nothing can intrude upon him. A finger touches him at the base of his hairline, dead in the center of his neck. He sighs. It traces one line down his neck, breaking the flow of the water there. His spine tingles directly beneath it, a chasing shiver in anticipation of where it's going to land next. It doesn't disappoint. With steady pressure, the finger moves slowly downward, gracing tiny bumps of his vertebrae under his slick skin. He straightens his back involuntarily, reflexively as it passes down further. Back arched, head and neck now thrown completely back, the water falls directly upon his chest as the finger comes to rest in the tiny hollow of his back at the base of his spine.

He sighs heavier as the whole hand is tangible there now. Human heat, bare skin pressing against his, resting, rubbing and undulating slightly, deciding where to move next. He's happy.

"TIME!" A metallic voice shouts.

Standing there, arms crossed against a formidable chest, the impatient hack doesn't know, care, or have the capacity to understand that he's interrupting. "Come on Alvarez, shut it down."

He does. The reverie is broken, and all alone he reaches up and turns the faucet, stopping the flow so that no more drops can fall.

Wordlessly, he dries off and is led back to his little cell where the door is shut behind him and he's to remain alone for the next 23 hours. There are interruptions. A plastic tray with bland food is shoved in to him a few times between now and then, but that's all. He's long ago forgotten at what times these things occur, or how many times they have. He didn't keep count. He only uses them as markers, to know that time is passing.

This is his reality, to everyone else.

It's what they perceive and know through their senses. What is seen, heard, touched, tasted, and smelled. Those things are real. Everything else is an illusion. Or crazy. If it isn't tangible, it can't be fully understood.

Or can it?

Clear, odorless gases can permeate the air and kill us. We don't detect that they are there, but the effects are all too real. Time. We can't gather it in a box and label that box for later use. But it's very real, especially to someone like Miguel Alvarez. Love. What is love? It's not tangible. But it's real. And real love doesn't just fade away.

"St. Stephen with a rose, in and out of the garden he goes, country garden in the wind and the rain, wherever he goes the people all complain."

He still mutters it. Sometimes it's quiet, contemplative. Sometimes in a singsong voice, wistfully. He's added to it.

"Hell halfway twixt now and then, Stephen fill it up and lower down again. Saint Stephen will remain, All he's lost he shall regain."

Then it ends the way Beecher told him. "Seashore washed by the suds and foam, Been here so long, he's got to calling it home."

"Saint Stephen will remain, all he's lost he shall regain." Hacks hear him say it. They think he's nuts, just like his old rhyme spouting pal Beecher was. They have no idea.

He's here because he broke the rules. And they think he's crazy because he continues to break them. We all know what the first set of rules was and how and why he broke them. But those others, the ones he's breaking now, who defined those? He doesn't know, he doesn't care, and he's not going to live by them. Those rules were created for other people, people who have to justify their lives, people who have to look to tomorrow, people who have a tomorrow. He knows he doesn't have those things, or those worries. He doesn't have to move on, he doesn't have to adapt and change. All he has is this little cell, and himself. Their rules don't mean a thing to him, they have no resonance, or advantage.

"Till death us do part." Perhaps that was the foundation of the rule. Vows are exchanges, promises made, and the rules were set. Rules for love. It's a loophole. Necessary, yes. Logical, yes. Merciful, yes. But still a loophole. Till death us do part. Alvarez has no use for that loophole. He never took those vows or made those promises anyhow. He can't move on and meet someone new. That's simply an impossibility.

For others, on the outside, it's only humane. Grieve, mourn, and then move on. Build a new life, allow yourself a new love. And what is that love? Why is it so important that we have to have a new one?

It can't be tasted, touched, smelled, heard, or seen. But we need it. Sure, the nuances of our lover can be felt in the sensual way. But is that all it is? Our love is predicated on our beloved tasting like warm spice?

No. It's how they make us feel. It's what it does to us. Fluttering in the tummy, an insistent heartbeat, a feeling of happiness. Feeling of happiness. Also intangible. What creates these things? The way they look at us, the way they touch us. The things they do, the words they say. But there's more. It can't be bottled, and it may sound crazy. It's their essence, it's their energy. Simple physics, or mystical magic. Energy. Human. We all have it. Those who think we don't are the ones who are absurd. Molecular transfer creates it. That's our basic building blocks. Beneath the skin, beneath our genetically granted soulful eyes, smaller than the cells of blood that pump through our veins, we are made of molecules, and they create energy.

Energy is never created or destroyed. Physics. But philosophy and religion will tell you the same. Buddhists say it. Energy is never destroyed, it merely changes and then re- groups. Nirvana.

Love is energy. Love is never created or destroyed. It's there. Waiting, sometimes dormant. Sometimes hidden.

Alvarez didn't study physics or sit with a bodhisattva. But he knows it. His love doesn't die.

No matter what.

He doesn't need the loophole, and he has nothing but time to keep the energy alive. He has a mind, and he has memories. To some it seems the cruelest punishment there is. Wailing and howling and mourning a loss. But that's only half. Saint Stephen will remain, all he lost he shall regain. Hell halfway twixt now and then, Stephen fill it up and lower it down again.

He sits back on his bunk and folds his arms upon his legs. Rocking gently, he croons a soft Spanish lullaby. He leans down and kisses the soft tender skin, grazing one large hand over the downy softness of new hair. Pulling back slightly, he sees the striking similarity of impossibly dark shining eyes just like his own. He smiles. He coos.

Leaning back, closing his eyes, he lets go. He sees a young boy running up a street he's never been to. The houses are spaced far apart, all of them set upon perfectly manicured lawns with shiny cars in the driveway. A small, skinny boy runs around on vibrantly green grass. His hair is dark and wavy, he's younger than his fair, blonde playmates, a boy and a girl. He can't smell gasoline and fresh tar. He smells the crispness of new cut grass, a faint hint of lilac wafting on the breeze from the tree in the backyard. The sun falls upon the three children as they roll around carefree and safe. He knows how that feels, it warms his skin too. It's not permanent, but even when the sun sets on them, it's still there, waiting, and it'll come back up tomorrow and create the same feeling.

The breeze stops, the air gets dense. A hand rests on his face, covering his eyes. He flutters his eyes open and closed against the soft skin, knowing, remembering exactly how that feels to him. Tickling, lashes grazing and teasing as he breaks into a wide grin. Soft lips drop a kiss upon the side of his sinewy neck and his shoulders hunch up against the pleasing touch.

He lies back- sunshine gone now- surrounded by dark. Heavy, humid air. Thick and sultry, almost tangible. No smell of lawn clippings, only the human scent of flesh and blood now. Tangy, salty, but warm, always warm. Then warmer, near his ear, a presence can be felt. Moist and hot, breath tingling, whispering softly as lips graze close, barely touching. "Es bonita, baby," he hears.

He laughs out loud, that's his line. The wide smile opens his mouth, the laughter shaking his chest distracts him momentarily. It must have been inviting, because the mouth is upon his now. Nipping, teasing with little kisses, their breath mixing. He calms, becomes aware of the feeling elsewhere now, another body pressed against his side. Allowing himself to be kissed, he resists the urge to respond, to kiss back. He lays there instead, inviting more aggressive tactics. His suitor determined, a line of kisses falls down his throat, a tongue licks his collarbone. He squirms, he thinks it's imperceptible, tries to remain still, but it's noticed.

A hand moves across his chest, smooth, warm, lower. Down to his belly, rubbing back and forth across it while his neck is still being kissed. One of his own hands rest palm up against his forehead. The kisses trace his jawline, back to his mouth as the hand moves up that exposed arm. A single finger strokes his palm as the body shifts, directly on top of him now. Still kissing him, nimble tongue occasionally colliding with his. Sucking on his lips, teeth grazing pleasantly, the weight and warmth of another stomach pressed into his, chest to chest. Heavy, not claustrophobic, he breathes deeply, his breath escaping him thickly, hotly, against his love's mouth. The finger stroking his palm moves up, twines with his, and they both squeeze. A sign, an unspoken declaration of what this is about, the both of them, closeness, love.

Overwhelmed by the balance of physicality and emotion, he writhes a bit under the other. He can't see. Dead of night, or simply a dark area, it doesn't matter. He doesn't need to see. He can feel it. The air is even heavier now, laden with humidity, soaked with lust, and vibrating with energy. It's charged. He's charged, lit up. Heart racing, pulse coursing, spine tingling, he's alive, present, they both are, he can feel it. Rushing, breathing heavy, muscles tensing everywhere a hand brushes over them.

Nerves and sensors on edge, it's all good. The hand upon his stomach again, jagged breath against his neck. He inhales roughly, the moisture, the heat, the salt of sex goes in, courses through his lungs, some of it absorbed, the rest forced right back out again with a sexual moan. The hand moves lower, catches hold of him. Wired for touch, he bucks in reaction.

All the energy seems concentrated there now, it's so intense. But that proves wrong as more kisses fall on his mouth, another hand catches his, he's still aware of the length and reinforcing weight of another body against his. His entire body undulating now, panting mouth to mouth, thrusting against the steady strokes, he breaks into sweat. The air even thicker, heat radiating from outside him, above him, inside. "Yeah, oh yeah," he says. Louder, over and over. "Yeah, oh yeah, ahhh." He's so hot, but he can't stop, the kisses won't stop, the hand won't stop. It just keeps making it better, more intense, more tingling, more heat, more breath, more energy.

Then he can't take anymore. His whole body goes on edge, his breath stops momentarily, every muscle contracts. Alive, then he shudders back into relaxation. Exhausted, still now, still panting, still warm, still coursing with energy, he sighs again. He hovers in that state for a time before dozing off. It's still present then, still real.

Sometimes that reality lasts for days. He doesn't know what breaks it. A hack speaking to him, an unexpected glance around his cell. That's when it shatters. That's when he feels the loss. It tears that energy away from him, and he can't get it back right away. It's a gaping void then. He howls in protest. That's what everyone talks about, that's when they think he's insane.

But that ends too. He stops thinking of the loss for some reason. An old memory may trigger it. And he thinks of those memories, holding his baby, holding Beech. And he remembers what that was like. It was all good. So he conjures those memories. And he conjures their energy. And he doesn't stop. He remembers he loved them. Then he realizes that he still loves them. He loves them, and he keeps them alive. And he can feel that energy. He may say a little rhyme to remind himself. "Hell halfway twixt now and then, Stephen fill it up and lower it down again. Saint Stephen will remain, all he lost, he shall regain. Seaside washed in the suds and foam, been so long he's got to calling it home." And just like that, he has it back.

Is he crazy? Is he hopeless? Love creates hope.

Love is energy.

Energy is never created or destroyed.

Have you ever loved?

He has.

He does.