When I first knew him, Gary had a tattoo. A sleeve of blue, shifting ink, a skinful of waves. In the middle, marooned on a patch of freckled skin, a mole. A fleshy island I trailed fingers towards. When I touched it, the sea retreated, lapped back, and he’d gasp and grab my wrist. Back then I had the power to turn the tide, now he wears long shirts that button at the cuffs.