#163
The black line starts and ends with a T. At one end, a girl sits in her chair with a large red flotation device. At the other end, I stand with my feet on the cool part of the concrete and adjust my goggles.
The water is smooth. I think this each time I slip in. It’s clear. This pool, they keep it mildly chlorinated. My skin after, doesn’t smell like chemicals. It’s outdoors. The air is hot and dry, and my body welcomes the humidity of the water easily. I swim one lap, gingerly, and then take the goggles off. I hate them.
A few lanes over is the girl in the black bathing suit who speeds through the water easier than she walks down a sidewalk. She is aquatic. On the other side of me, an older man in long shorts sets up an assortment of pool apparatuses. A board, paddles for his hands, fins, and dumbells. His strokes are smooth, easy, long, and paced. I lap him, but he swims longer than I do.
The sun is bright and harsh today; prickly. I don’t wear sunscreen, except on my face. I don’t wear a swim cap, because they hurt. I swim in black, tight trunks. Lap swim costs $1.25.
Later, after I’ve depleted all the food I’ve eaten, and my foot starts to cramp because I don’t like bananas, I’ll sit in the sun and dry out. The mole on my chest, turns out isn’t a mole, so I don’t limit my time. My arms, legs, feet, chest turn brown. Freckles emerge. The laps have replaced the courts for now. Both spots where I can’t listen to music, where I can’t look at a phone or read a book. Where I don’t have to be bothered with whatever news channel is on in front of a treadmill.
Pure release.