He pulls his goggles over his head, adjusting for maximum suction. Neck cranes right, suspending his head at an unnatural sleeping angle, then smoothly swings down and left then hangs. Rib cage puffs out hungrily as shoulders roll back, gently guiding the tension, letting it ripple through the shoulder blades, muscles, lower back, and releasing it into the flowing water. His vision is tunneled through the grey tinted lenses, seeing only the wall on which his feet will push off, maximizing short bursts that will propel his tautly streamlined body effortlessly through the water, before he emerges once again, breathing in life greedily.
He is ready. He glances back briefly, to check that she is still working on her promised routine in the width of the pool, at the only section where she could touch the bottom with her pointed toes. He tugs on his goggles again and disappears under the water.
I throw out a few more pretentious strokes while bouncing on tip toes, edging my way back to the welcoming ladder. With my feet firmly planted on the ground, I hurry back to my novel about 14th century monks and the plague.
As I wiggle onto the dry wooden beach chair, still slightly warm from the morning sun, I notice that J has switched to the back stroke. Right. Left. Right. Left. His winter white torso glistens while his right arm stretches out, fingers tense and at attention. At the critical moment, right before he is poised to slice through the water, his hand flicks, barely perceptible, allowing his palm to curve and cup the surface.
An unexpected turn; a sudden grace. Beauty so subtle and so rare in his precision and control.
My breath got caught, just a little bit.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Third Time Lucky
J and I are complete opposites so we are constantly venturing out of our own reassuring comfort zones to meet the other more than half way.
I pulled him to the local Fruit Music Plaza for a mind-blowing night of KTV and dancing while he slowly warmed up his side to side shuffles with Katy Perry favorites. He, the high school swim team star, invited me, who frequented the handicap lap lane, to early morning swimming. I often joked about 5 languages of love as a gentle (or pouty) reminder that I needed my words of affirmation for the day, when he would rather take out my trash to show affection. And when I casually interlinked my fingers with his in the Shanghai metro, he shifted uncomfortably and saved his "I don't believe in PDA" speech for the privacy of a dark cab.
While we grabbed Uighur food with our work friends the other day, in the middle of my 5 love languages conversation with a colleauge who was conteplating divorce, J cleared his throat. A little too loudly.
He held both hands out, palms down, and with a conspiratory smirk, he announced that he had a secret. In a smooth move, he put his hand on the back of my neck, and pulled me in for a kiss.
He missed.
The table went wild. Amid cries of "I knew it!" and "So you're not gay!?" J tried again.
And missed again.
Even my thick skin was not hiding the red that crept up my cheeks. So the third time, I tried to ignore the flashing cameras and the rolling videos that would probably be uploaded to the company QQ group, and held still.
J, the boy known for not dating in the Flagship program, hated hand holding in public, and avoided me when he first moved here because I was a girl, beat me at the PDA game.
Check mate.
I pulled him to the local Fruit Music Plaza for a mind-blowing night of KTV and dancing while he slowly warmed up his side to side shuffles with Katy Perry favorites. He, the high school swim team star, invited me, who frequented the handicap lap lane, to early morning swimming. I often joked about 5 languages of love as a gentle (or pouty) reminder that I needed my words of affirmation for the day, when he would rather take out my trash to show affection. And when I casually interlinked my fingers with his in the Shanghai metro, he shifted uncomfortably and saved his "I don't believe in PDA" speech for the privacy of a dark cab.
While we grabbed Uighur food with our work friends the other day, in the middle of my 5 love languages conversation with a colleauge who was conteplating divorce, J cleared his throat. A little too loudly.
He held both hands out, palms down, and with a conspiratory smirk, he announced that he had a secret. In a smooth move, he put his hand on the back of my neck, and pulled me in for a kiss.
He missed.
The table went wild. Amid cries of "I knew it!" and "So you're not gay!?" J tried again.
And missed again.
Even my thick skin was not hiding the red that crept up my cheeks. So the third time, I tried to ignore the flashing cameras and the rolling videos that would probably be uploaded to the company QQ group, and held still.
J, the boy known for not dating in the Flagship program, hated hand holding in public, and avoided me when he first moved here because I was a girl, beat me at the PDA game.
Check mate.
Confession: I've never read the 5 Languages of Love
Friday, June 15, 2012
Super Size Moral
For an end-of-year party at school, Jody watched Super Size Me, a documentary of a guy who eats McDonald's every day for a long time, with detrimental health consequences.
Apparently, they even show the chicken nuggets production process, starting from clipping chickens onto the conveyor belt by their beaks, then culminating in a drop into the vengeful grinder and poofs of feather.
Her comment on the doc?
"Sisi, when I was watching Super Size Me, I was only thinking of one thing:
Chicken Nuggets. Mmm!
Apparently, they even show the chicken nuggets production process, starting from clipping chickens onto the conveyor belt by their beaks, then culminating in a drop into the vengeful grinder and poofs of feather.
Her comment on the doc?
"Sisi, when I was watching Super Size Me, I was only thinking of one thing:
Chicken Nuggets. Mmm!
McDonald's every day? Lucky!!"
Seems like we need to accompany each scene with the correct moral in subtitles.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)