by Christopher Woods

Heat was all around them, and there was no breeze. Above them and the swimming pool, a white hot sun loomed. It was early afternoon. He knew it would happen soon. She would make sure of it.
 
At times he felt like their small and randy pilgrimages to municipal pools would never end. He had become increasingly paranoid about the visits. But for now, he did not wish them to end. There was a lure about it all. And she, always the stronger of the two, would only smile at him if he ever chose to complain. In this way, they were a team.
 
“I don’t know about this,” he told her. “Suppose…”
 
“What is it now?” she asked. “It’s always something,” she added sarcastically as she stretched in a chaise lounge.
 
“It’s nothing,” he said.
 
“It’s always nothing,” she said with a sneer. But he could not see her eyes behind her dark glasses.
 
His own eyes, also hidden, scoured the pool and the people in it. The water’s surface seemed electric as sunlight glowed on the small blue waves between swimmers. He was bemoaning the fact that he had never learned to dive. He believed there were things, perhaps faults, that prevented a person from becoming whole. Here he was, almost middle-aged and his hair already thinning, and he still could not dive. He watched the divers taking turns.
 
“So easy for some,” he said to no one in particular. Then, to her, “You know, I’d rather not be here right now. We were here last week.”
 
Of course he would say that, she thought to herself. He was always such a whiner. She watched him, watching the divers. She knew it was more than envy on his part.
 
And what did she think? She imagined that diving was just another way of passing the time. Up and down, up and down, she found nothing remarkable about them. Their sleek bodies, yes. The matter of youth. And she knew that their taste, as a pair, in very young men, boys really, worried him. He feared arrest. She often laughed at his fear, at all his fears really. He was a frightened man, and a weak one, she often reminded him.
 
And although divers as a group failed to impress her, she did have a very healthy respect for people who traveled in water. For swimmers, particularly the long distance kind.
 
“Someone might recognize us from last week,” he said. He knew full well she had no intention of leaving, but he was getting nervous.
 
She refused to answer him. Now she was thinking of bays and channels. Specifically, she was thinking of the English Channel. Then, somewhere in the blue depths of her memory, she recalled the story of a young woman who attempted to swim from Cuba to Florida. Oh, she couldn’t remember that woman’s name, but that was not the point. What mattered was that the woman didn’t succeed. Something had happened, gone wrong. Maybe the woman became too tired to continue. But when she emerged from the water, her body was covered with jellyfish stings and her lips were blue. This memory was clear, courtesy of television. And although she did not know the woman with blue lips, and in fact would never meet her, she was so sorry that the woman had failed. Swimmers, she thought, a smile on her face. All swimmers. A healthy respect is what she felt for them all.
 
“Look at them,” he said, mesmerized by the young divers. “Watch them. Something as simple as that. In the air. The arc of grace.”
 
“Oh yes,” she said. “You really like that stuff, don’t you?” Her voice was now suddenly husky.
 
“Don’t make fun of me,” he said, his own throat dry now.
 
What they had between them now was desire, pure and simple.
 
“Why not? You know how I feel about swimmers. Any swimmer, really. Even divers must swim, don’t you agree? Even your divers.”
 
“They don’t belong to anyone. Not to me or to you. Maybe to the sun. Or the water. But not to us. Never,” he said, and his eyes welled with tears.
 
“Maybe they do for an afternoon. For a price.”
 
“Go on,” he said, suddenly sad. “Make your selection.”
 
“I will,” she said. “You know I will.”
 
She surveyed the pool and the bodies inside it with a fresh determination. She was looking for someone, well, appropriate. He no longer watched the pool. Instead he watched her face, and awaited her final decision.
 
“Then do it,” he said.
 
“I am. You know how I like to take my time. Remember, I’m deciding for both of us.”
 
“I know that.”
 
“Oh, why not a diver?” she asked. “Would you like that?”
 
“Not a diver, please,” he said. For him, a diver was too spiritual, too close to his idea of God. Somehow, having a diver merely for sex was blasphemy. But, he also knew he was powerless, against her, and his own desires. She knew this all too well. They had been a team for a long time.
 
“Yes, I think a diver,” she said, now stroking her thighs. “What was it you said, the arc of grace?” Yes, a diver would be perfect. You don’t mind, really, do you?”
 
What could he possibly say? That he did mind? That this was one of the very few things that still mattered, that was even sacred to him? He couldn’t answer her for a moment. There were no words that might explain what he was feeling. And even if there were words, what would be their strength compared to hers?  Down deep, he had always desired a diver, but he had always felt unworthy. It was too close to God.
 
“I didn’t think so,” she said, clearly excited now. “You deserve it, I say. Go on, pick a diver. Any one of them will do.”
 
She nudged him with her foot until he stood up. When he hesitated, she kicked his back. He then began walking slowly, step by step, the length of the pool, toward the divers. They were not yet aware of them. His throat was so dry now that he feared he would not be able to speak. But he continued. He walked up to them, half in desperation, half in awe.

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