Today is Monday, so at 7:30 pm I am gliding across the local outdoor swimming pool in a variation of breaststroke where the head and ears are kept out of the water. My chin juts out, plowing across the blue expanse and I flutter along behind it.
A girl two lanes down is wearing earrings that shine how only fake diamonds can in an overhead light. She is on a kickboard. We trade glances. Hers, a soft, possibly longing, optical embrace that is either asking the two of us to frolic like sea anemone in the deep end, to let our toes touch or asking why someone overweight by Army standards is wearing a Speedo with yellow smiley faces. Mine is either gasping for breath or suave. Favoring the latter, I dive under the lane lines and we meet in the middle. She doesn’t hesitate to grab my hand with hers. Her hands are a topographical map, I circle the scenic lookout point where we will pack a picnic and unfold a romance.
A girl two lanes down is wearing earrings with her swim cap. She gives me a strange look, and I realize I’ve been staring. She kicks off the wall, back across the pool. I climb out. It’s raining so I run to the locker room.
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