By ELANA LAVINE

He gets in the water piece by piece, ankle thigh nipples, grunt. Shoulders below the same surface, it’s obscene, like slipping into my bed.

Oh that’s cold

I’ve stopped for breath. Not for this.

You’re a strong swimmer, he says, I was watching. A round-calved lifeguard stalks, pink toenails at my eyeline. She knows, and I know, that I can’t have a lane all to myself.