Later that evening I ask you how you suppose symbiotic relationships begin. "How do they even know when to start?" I ask. "How can they be sure they won't hurt each other?" We are intertwined, the way one would cling to a raft after being thrown overboard, when you say, "They must have some sort of instinct." Your hands feel warm on my back, and your voice is softer than it usually is. Outside the rain is heavy, unforgiving, but in this room we float. There are strange and beautiful creatures under the sea that nobody has discovered just yet. I think about how our days are oceans of swirling possibilities, deep and blue and full. You tell me, "They know who to trust."