We met at her development’s pool. She came almost every day, her eyes obscured
behind gold-tinted reflective glasses, her hair short and dark with light brown highlights. She
planted herself in a chaise and lay, almost entirely immobile, from mid-morning to early
evening. I never saw her actually swim. Instead, every couple of hours she would raise herself
off her chaise and tuck her pointer fingers under the scallop of her buttocks to extract her suit.
Then she would lower herself into the deep end, ramrod straight without any splash at all, and
linger underwater for twenty seconds or so before reemerging and settling herself back on her
chaise.
Eventually, we engaged in small talk while I made my way around the pool’s perimeter
scrubbing tiles or while packing up the umbrellas if strong winds came and skies threatened. It
was a tiny pool, a “one - guarder,” and often it was just the two of us.
I think I knew why she invited me to come over after my s hift one day. But I don’t
remember worrying or being scared or excited even when I locked up and walked over and she
opened the door in civilian clothes, her hair smelling freshly shampooed. She kissed me and I
don’t think we even spoke as she led me to he r bedroom. I pulled a condom out of my wallet; it
had been in there since spring. But she told me I didn’t need it and then, undressed, pointed to
a scar across her abdomen. The whole thing was over in ten minutes and I ran out of there,
sweating and short of breath. I left my whistle behind.
The next day, she met me at the pool’s front gate. Spinning it around her finger, she
handed me back my whistle.
“Thanks,” I said.
She nodded.
“I’d like to come back today,” I said. “If that would be okay.”
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