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.
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