The pool in his building has a window straight onto the gym. He stood me in front of it, wet, told me not to cover anything, and went off to find our towels. He took his time. The man on the treadmill kept his pace up the whole way through.
Rooftop pool in July, a crow standing on the ladder rail like it owned the place. He was on the phone to his sister the entire time his other hand was busy with me, and he never once lowered his voice. "No, I'm listening," he said. "Go on."
Their side lost and ours didn't, and he came out of the water still angry about it. Took the back of my neck in front of the whole bench and walked me down the tiles to the equipment room. Somebody whistled. He said, "Yeah, alright."
Last day of the conference. The atrium pool was shut for cleaning except it wasn't, because he'd charmed the key off the desk guy. He wouldn't let me take my badge off — hooked a finger through the lanyard and reeled me in. "Leave it. You look official."
Six a.m. lane swim, Tuesday. He got out first and stood there dripping while I sat on the edge with my goggles still up on my forehead. Two fingers under my chin. "Up." The lifeguard was down the far end fixing the lane rope.
Sunday, someone's radio going in the plant room, the football. He came up out of the water dripping all down the tiles and stood over me until I sat down on the bench. Then he put a hand on my knee and pushed it aside.
The storm had knocked a skylight panel loose and there were birds in the roof beams all afternoon. He stopped me walking past, took my hip in one hand — 'Hold still, they'll settle.' The maintenance guy came in about the glass. He didn't move his hand.
February, snow on the trees through the glass, heating broken so the whole room was steam. He backed me up against the window ledge, tipped my head with two fingers under my jaw and said, 'You're shaking.' I was.
Tuesday lane swim, two old boys ploughing up and down the slow lane. He caught my wrist on the ladder and said, quiet, 'Don't dry off. Just come.' I stood dripping on the tile with my towel still folded on the bench where I'd left it.
Wedding weekend, spa pool under that big arched window, and the bride's uncle was doing slow lengths in a swim cap. He laid his hand flat on my stomach, left it there, and carried on asking me about the seating plan until the uncle got out.
His league match ran late so I sat in the gallery with a cold sandwich in my bag. After, he walked me down the tiles by the back of my neck, past two guys coiling lane ropes, and kept hold of me the whole time he told them good game.
Last swim of the season. He made me wait on the edge with my feet in the water while he did his lengths — forty-two, I counted. Then he climbed out, took my chin in his wet hand and said, 'Told you you'd still be here.'
Six in the morning at the hotel pool and the only other person there was the guy vacuuming the tile. He stood me under the rinse shower, worked shampoo through my hair with both hands and said, 'Eyes open. Look at me.' The vacuum never stopped.
Staff pool, ninth floor, nine at night. My sandwich went cold on the bench. He walked me backward into the window with the offices still lit across the street and I said leave the lights on, and he laughed and said fine.
He came up the ladder dripping and didn't reach for a towel, just stood there while the old guy doing laps kept going past. I was on the tile with his shorts in my lap. He said, "Stay there till I'm dry." The lifeguard looked over twice.
Tuesday, half nine, the pool was supposed to shut at nine. He hauled himself out, stood dripping on the tile and said, "Towel off." The lifeguard was still coiling the lane rope by the steps. I dropped it anyway. He said, "Good. Come here."
The lifeguard had gone home and Dale swam his laps anyway, no trunks, while I sat on the deck with the towels. He came up the ladder dripping and stood over me and said, "Don't get up. Keep looking at me." Somebody's radio was still on in the office.
Hotel pool, empty except the attendant restacking towels. Miles hauled himself out, dripping, and told me to stay sitting on the ledge. "Don't dry me off yet." He stood in front of me until the towel guy looked up, and then a second longer.
Sunday, empty club, the tile so hot on my shins I kept shifting. He was in the chair behind me with a beer sweating on the arm rest. Every time I lifted off he'd say "down," and I'd sit back down, and the gate buzzer went twice and neither of us moved.
I was chest-deep with the ladder rail in my hand and he waded over and stood on the step so I was eye level with his stomach. Water off him ran down my chin. He put both hands behind his head and said, "Well? You asked in the car."