Poolside

The summer heat wasn’t quite here yet, but it was warm enough that as I sat on the pool deck with him, I was feeling flushed.  It was one of those typical first days of June.  The kids are relishing the simple pleasures of sleeping late and carelessly bounding across freshly manicured lawns with the dogs trailing behind them.  The parents aren’t so exhausted yet that they’ve begun to spike their pink lemonade with shades of rum or vodka.  

This was at the edge of our pool.  The pool had been recently resurfaced and replenished by my fastidious husband just in time for visitors. It was a pleasant temperature. In front of us, the boys jumped fearlessly into the deep end like two explorers embarking on a competitive mission to destroy the older assembly of siblings perched on the steps of the shallow end. Jacques Cousteau.  Émile Gagnan.  The battle for the pool had begun. 

The humidity was strong and my pale skin was feeling overexposed. He had come out of the shade to rest along the poolside with me, between the deep and shallow end, my one foot dangling in next to his two. He had a smaller build and a deeper skin tone, even when I stared at his opaque limbs through water’s reflection. It occurred to me that he could probably sit poolside for hours and feel confident that he’d be the same deep chestnut color. I would be a reddish glaze of aloe.

 

We sipped on glasses of sun tea and watched the children play.  My husband was away at his day job.  His wife had left him here with the children while she went shopping for some new outfit.  There was very little conversation as we tuned into the laughter and activity in the water.  

He took off his shirt and dove into the pool.  The kids swirled around him like sharks and I felt a jolt of merry adventure.  He smiled and laughed and I smiled back at him and all the sudden, I felt like one of the kids.  All four kids piled themselves on a quickly plummeting raft.  I sunk my feet deeper into the pool and took the one side while he took the other.  We splashed and played Marco Polo.  We hoisted the younger ones on our shoulders and barreled toward each other in a pleasant game of Chicken. 

“Want another tea?” I asked him.

“Sure. I’ll keep an eye on the kids,” he replied.

I grabbed a towel, smoothed back my hair, and grabbed the pitcher from the counter.  He opened the sliding glass door to pop his head in,

“You know, I feel this…..energy between us” he said in some staggered, broken english.

“Oh?” I said, surprised and somewhat curious.

“My wife.  Well,” he sighed, “we don’t have that, what I feel when you’re around,” he continued, “she doesn’t like to be physical.”

I could see his expression change.  All at once he moved from being one of the kids to being something else.  Behind him, the kids splashed. His son was calling him back to the pool, throwing a ball at his father’s ankles – beckoning him to return to the fun, the childhood games we play.  He stood half in the patio, dripping wet, halfway through the sliding door. 

“You know, it doesn’t have to mean anything.  I could just take this…. energy that we have and bring it back to my wife.”

I had our two glasses of sun tea in my hands. I reminded myself to breathe. His chest was dripping water on the kitchen tile.  I couldn’t help but stare at the puddle.   I walked back towards the pool, towards him. The humidity from the open sliding door had already started to permeate the house.  I pressed the tea into his hand, standing there silent looking into his dark and foreign eyes.  He had stolen this moment.  I was basking in childhood pleasures and he wanted something from me to take back to his marriage. 

I could feel the puddle at my feet as I slid the door shut. His eyes turned back to the pool. He held his tea with one hand, grabbed the ball with the other, and joined the kids.