You start with water. The stream ripples your skin with its current, warps your eyes, leaves you colorless. Water leaves you colorless. Motionless water is better, you discover. A puddle, a lake, a shallow bowl. You obsess over your reflection—the curve of your jaw, the speckles on your cheeks you never knew existed. You sneak glances at yourself in the black pits of someone else’s eyes, the tiny round distortion, the tiny colorless you. These are your first mirrors—the water like a cup of liquid glass, the spheres that sit in your lover’s skull like two black moons.