You were twenty-six in the hot August month of 1998 and for a shimmering chlorinated hour at a friend’s pool party at a lavish apartment complex in Livermore, California, you became the mythical, magical Hot Tub Stud. Your girlfriend wasn’t there. It was August, and she had already packed her bags to start her fall semester at Scripps College in Claremont California. It was ridiculous that you and your girlfriend Pamela would attempt a long-term relationship. You were each other’s first romance. You both were surely naive. Neither of you knew how doomed and unhealthy your relationship was. There were things about you–your neediness and lack of spontaneity to name two–that Pamela hated about you. Deep down, you knew she hated you, but you were too needy to acknowledge how repulsed she was by your neediness. You were also too needy to acknowledge that you weren’t so hot about her either. Sure, the chemistry was great. You guys desired each other every second, but it was impossible for you to truly love someone who recoiled at your broken, immature self. Deep down, you wanted to be admired and adored, and you knew Pamela would never be that person.
Around 3 p.m., in the steamy, chlorine-scented haze of suburban hedonism, she appeared: Rachel, a petite brunette with long, flowing hair, skin like burnished chestnut, and dark, soulful eyes that suggested she’d read Anna Karenina and wept at the right parts. She wore a green bikini. She had depth. She had presence. And she was—unbelievably—into you.
And not just into your pecs and biceps. She was drawn to your languid ease, your temporary state of post-Pamela serenity, that rare moment when you weren’t apologizing for your existence or scanning the horizon for emotional threats. You exuded something you rarely possessed: confidence. You didn’t try to be charming. You just were.
You talked. She was an Ashkenazi Jew, like you—except fully, whereas you were only half, your dad a gruff Irish Catholic whose idea of spiritual intimacy was yelling at the TV. You told her it was a miracle you weren’t in therapy. She laughed. The real kind. She told you about growing up in a Jewish enclave in Dallas, her econ degree from San Francisco State, and the Marina District apartment she shared with roommates and dreams.
In the swirling warmth of the hot tub, you slowly cradled her as she floated on her back, spinning gently in your arms like a sun-drunk naiad. You gazed into each other’s eyes like characters in a perfume commercial—if the perfume were melancholy, the top note regret.
And in that moment, Pamela ceased to exist. You were ready to let Pamela become a dot receding into the horizon, propose to Rachel, adopt a rescue dog, and buy Rachel a two-bedroom Marina District condo with French doors and jasmine on the balcony. Your soul whispered scripture: “And the two shall become one flesh.”
But just as you leaned into that soon-to-be-legendary kiss, your guilt, or maybe your emotional cowardice, threw a wrench into fate. You stood her upright and mumbled something about having a girlfriend.
The look on Rachel’s face—that soft, diplomatic devastation—has haunted you ever since. She gave you a gentle out: “You’re probably confused.” And then she disappeared into the changing room like Eurydice stepping into the underworld, and you never saw her again.
Years passed. Decades. And when life feels like a cruel joke told by someone with bad timing—when you’re depressed, flabby, or existentially irrelevant—you return to that hot tub. You imagine yourself sweeping Rachel off her feet, performing impromptu piano recitals, meeting her doting parents, and becoming the man you wanted to be in that moment: the Hot Tub Stud who followed through.
But you didn’t. You blinked. You let Eden slip through your fingers, and like all paradise stories, it ended with exile.
Still, for one hour, you were perfect. You were desired. You were whole.
And you’ve been chasing that hour ever since.
Cinemorphosis 
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