Swimming in solitude
If you ask a group of drivers, many will tell you of the pleasures of late night car journeys. In the most early hours of the morning, to have your windows down and your foot on the pedal in a wide, vast and empty street with not another soul in sight. It's freeing, they would say, that sense of solitude.
I've never learnt to drive. The smell of petrol crinkles my nose. The stagnant, still air inside a metal box makes my stomach turn. But most of all, I fear the responsibility of it. To put yourself behind the wheel is to put the lives of all the motorists and pedestrians you will encounter on your shoulders.
For me, late night solitude comes in a swimming pool. Three long empty lanes. I pick the middle one, because in life I never allow myself to become the centre of attention, but in an empty pool with no one there but me, I feel comfortable in the water. This small hobby, which started out in my late teenage years, has become almost ritualistic to me. The swiping of my membership card against the reader and the satisfying click as the lock of the door opens. The removal of my clothing like I am disrobing myself for repentance. I look down the middle lane before I dive in, and I inhale the chlorine scented air. As I plunge into the water it does not feel as though I have left my worries by the poolside, but that they had never existed in the first place. My mind is taken elsewhere, to the strain of my muscles and my immediate senses of sight and touch. My thoughts, usually so condensed and tight, like needles that prod and irk, dilute themselves into the pool. After a while, once I've gotten used to the movement of my arms and legs, once my breathing has become automatic as I turn for air every four strokes, I start to fade into a blissful nothingness.
It was during the turn of a new year when this ritual began to change. The days of the week were filled with get togethers, parties with friends, family and strangers. More and more so I began to relish the end of the day and the beginning of a peaceful night in privacy. I would make the twenty minute walk to the local pool. I would swipe my card, and I would be welcomed in. I would take off my clothes and I would stare down to the end of the lane. But I would notice a long, creeping shadow over the surface of the water. I would look to the doorway and briefly glance a thin silhouette before it flitted away. I would hear no footsteps even though the floorboards would creak and groan under my own weight, and I would hear the buzz of the reader to indicate someone had left the building, even though I heard no swing of the door. At first I made no thought of it, but it began to happen with regular occurrence. Night after night a shadow would appear in the water and disappear into the air. It began to bother me. This place and time that I called my own was being intruded upon. Perhaps the shadow felt the same, and that upsetted me deeply. That two people seeking the same solitude could not find it in the presence of one another. It felt like a callous joke played by god; that the people who were most like me could not bear to be in the same water. Soon the water became uncomfortable to me. Despite the stillness of the surface, I felt a terrible shadow lurk underneath. The solitude that this place encapsulated was beginning to leak, through a hole created by this other presence. I became determined to meet it, and share in the pool. I thought that, together, perhaps solitude could be found not in ourselves, but in the spaces between us.
One night, I waited in the male changing rooms until I heard a disturbance in the water. The shadow had previously appeared roughly the same time each night, so I did not have to wait long. As I approached the pool with my clumsy steps the person turned around quickly. It was a woman. She looked to be in her late twenties like me. Her skin was pale as snow and her hair apocalyptically black. Her appearance reminded me of a glass statue - fragile and delicate yet bewitching. Her beauty was ethereal. She had her legs in the water and was sitting on the edge, one hand behind her shoulders as she turned to look at me. She looked petrified; a deer in the headlights.
I stopped moving. I placed my hand on the handle rail and spoke, softly.
"Please. Do not be worried. You and I, we both want to be alone. I believe that two people that seek solitude can find it together."
I stepped through onto the floorboards around the pool. I treaded lightly, as if not to startle a frightened animal, and slipped into the water. I gave the woman a smile, a gesture of comfort for her I hoped, and pushed off the backboard. I swam slowly, as if to give her time to leave if she so chose to, but as I reached the end of the pool and turned around to face her way, she was still there, her legs dipped into the water. I continued to swim, slower and with more focused movements than I usually did. I felt her gaze upon the back of my head. I knew she was watching me, scanning me for danger, wrestling with her instinctual fear of me and her desire to be in the water. As I was midway through my third lap I felt the water beside me part gently as she passed me in her lane. She moved with elegance like she was born of a world of water. Her petite and streamlined figure seemed to move without effort, as if she was a ruler that parted her guards as she moved through them. From that moment on the water felt much lighter, a shadow no longer there.
We would see each other most nights. We would nod politely before we slid into the water, and we would leave the pool without a word. A few days into the new routine, we began to smile at each other as we passed. Sometimes, as we sat with our legs in the water, we would exchange conversation. We talked about the news. We recommended each other books, films and music. We never talked about ourselves. It seemed like it would break the solitude. We knew nothing of each other, not our livelihoods, not our hobbies or dreams, not even our names were shared. In a world with only two people, names were not needed. A month into the routine, we began to share food and drink. Sandwiches and rice cakes wrapped in cling film, green tea in thermos flasks, and the like. We would sit by the pool's edge after our laps, eating and talking. We began to sit closer, but always in our own lane, and our voices became lighter, but always polite and respectful. Cautious even, for we knew that we had achieved a rare solitude, but one that was perched precariously on top of a pyramid of human desires.
One day, as she lowered herself into the water, I turned to look at her and saw a bruise of red skin on her shoulder. I pulled myself to look away - her body was none of my business - but my eyes laid transfixed as if pulled by magnets. She saw me staring and gave me a kind smile before pushing off the backboard. We did not talk that night. As I pushed off the back wall on my last lap she was sitting by the other end as she often did. By the time I had reached the front of the pool, she had disappeared. A rice cake and a thermos cup of green tea was left on the floorboards of my lane. I drank and ate alone, staring at the water as it steadied itself.
The woman did not come to the pool for a few days. A few days later, when she did come, she had a gash across her chest, and the bruise on her shoulder was still there. I smiled as I saw her, and she returned it, hesitantly. I glanced at her body for only a fraction of a second before I returned my gaze to the water, but I knew she had noticed, and I hoped she forgave me. We talked that night, eating ham and cheese sandwiches and sipping green tea. I had finished a book she recommended me, and so we discussed its meaning before parting ways.
A few days passed with no incidence. We would greet each other politely, swim our laps, share our food and talk about the world and its nothingness. Her body remained unchanged, yet nothing began to heal. Although I tried to stop myself, I could not help but catch a quick glance at her body as we saw each other. I hoped she did not mind so much, because it meant that I cared for her. But I knew that my care was corrosive, that it ran deep into people and in large doses it smothered and suffocated. And so I was careful not to bring up the topic, not to further our relationship beyond what it was.
That was how we spent the next three months. I would inspect her briefly, then avert my eyes. She would allow it to happen, then begin her laps. Over the course of this period I noticed a bruise on her stomach and a cut on her forearm. I noticed her left leg begin to limp as she kicked, her command in the water becoming weaker. On several nights I would see her cheeks red and puffed, and knew she had been crying. When she looked at me I saw a plea to let it all be, no matter how much it hurt me to do so.
I wonder if I did the right thing. If I should've said something, asked her, gave her my number or someone else's. Eventually, she did not come to the pool. I went in one day, at my usual hour, and saw a sandwich wrapped in clingfilm and a flask of tea by my lane. I finished my laps, and ate in silence. I knew that she would not come that night, and perhaps not for a while, but I hoped she would be back. I continued to visit the pool for several weeks, not knowing if I was doing it for my own solitude, or to see her. I wondered what had happened, whether she had sensed our delicate relationship about to collapse, or that something awful had happened to her. I despised myself for hoping more that it was the latter.
One day, as I reached the grounds of the building, I saw the doors bolted shut and a piece of paper plastered onto it. The pool was scheduled to be demolished the following week. I read the notice with a kind of surrendered acceptance. I knew I would have to find another place to hold my solitude. To this day I have yet to find it, but I hope I will soon. My days are filled with loud noises and loud people. To an extent I have become better at coping with it, at smiling when I am sad and faking enthusiasm when I deeply want escape. I long for it - to pull myself from the earthly world and float in a swimming pool. I hope that one day I can find another place to hold my solitude, and that if I do, a shadow would grace the waters.
I've never learnt to drive. The smell of petrol crinkles my nose. The stagnant, still air inside a metal box makes my stomach turn. But most of all, I fear the responsibility of it. To put yourself behind the wheel is to put the lives of all the motorists and pedestrians you will encounter on your shoulders.
For me, late night solitude comes in a swimming pool. Three long empty lanes. I pick the middle one, because in life I never allow myself to become the centre of attention, but in an empty pool with no one there but me, I feel comfortable in the water. This small hobby, which started out in my late teenage years, has become almost ritualistic to me. The swiping of my membership card against the reader and the satisfying click as the lock of the door opens. The removal of my clothing like I am disrobing myself for repentance. I look down the middle lane before I dive in, and I inhale the chlorine scented air. As I plunge into the water it does not feel as though I have left my worries by the poolside, but that they had never existed in the first place. My mind is taken elsewhere, to the strain of my muscles and my immediate senses of sight and touch. My thoughts, usually so condensed and tight, like needles that prod and irk, dilute themselves into the pool. After a while, once I've gotten used to the movement of my arms and legs, once my breathing has become automatic as I turn for air every four strokes, I start to fade into a blissful nothingness.
It was during the turn of a new year when this ritual began to change. The days of the week were filled with get togethers, parties with friends, family and strangers. More and more so I began to relish the end of the day and the beginning of a peaceful night in privacy. I would make the twenty minute walk to the local pool. I would swipe my card, and I would be welcomed in. I would take off my clothes and I would stare down to the end of the lane. But I would notice a long, creeping shadow over the surface of the water. I would look to the doorway and briefly glance a thin silhouette before it flitted away. I would hear no footsteps even though the floorboards would creak and groan under my own weight, and I would hear the buzz of the reader to indicate someone had left the building, even though I heard no swing of the door. At first I made no thought of it, but it began to happen with regular occurrence. Night after night a shadow would appear in the water and disappear into the air. It began to bother me. This place and time that I called my own was being intruded upon. Perhaps the shadow felt the same, and that upsetted me deeply. That two people seeking the same solitude could not find it in the presence of one another. It felt like a callous joke played by god; that the people who were most like me could not bear to be in the same water. Soon the water became uncomfortable to me. Despite the stillness of the surface, I felt a terrible shadow lurk underneath. The solitude that this place encapsulated was beginning to leak, through a hole created by this other presence. I became determined to meet it, and share in the pool. I thought that, together, perhaps solitude could be found not in ourselves, but in the spaces between us.
One night, I waited in the male changing rooms until I heard a disturbance in the water. The shadow had previously appeared roughly the same time each night, so I did not have to wait long. As I approached the pool with my clumsy steps the person turned around quickly. It was a woman. She looked to be in her late twenties like me. Her skin was pale as snow and her hair apocalyptically black. Her appearance reminded me of a glass statue - fragile and delicate yet bewitching. Her beauty was ethereal. She had her legs in the water and was sitting on the edge, one hand behind her shoulders as she turned to look at me. She looked petrified; a deer in the headlights.
I stopped moving. I placed my hand on the handle rail and spoke, softly.
"Please. Do not be worried. You and I, we both want to be alone. I believe that two people that seek solitude can find it together."
I stepped through onto the floorboards around the pool. I treaded lightly, as if not to startle a frightened animal, and slipped into the water. I gave the woman a smile, a gesture of comfort for her I hoped, and pushed off the backboard. I swam slowly, as if to give her time to leave if she so chose to, but as I reached the end of the pool and turned around to face her way, she was still there, her legs dipped into the water. I continued to swim, slower and with more focused movements than I usually did. I felt her gaze upon the back of my head. I knew she was watching me, scanning me for danger, wrestling with her instinctual fear of me and her desire to be in the water. As I was midway through my third lap I felt the water beside me part gently as she passed me in her lane. She moved with elegance like she was born of a world of water. Her petite and streamlined figure seemed to move without effort, as if she was a ruler that parted her guards as she moved through them. From that moment on the water felt much lighter, a shadow no longer there.
We would see each other most nights. We would nod politely before we slid into the water, and we would leave the pool without a word. A few days into the new routine, we began to smile at each other as we passed. Sometimes, as we sat with our legs in the water, we would exchange conversation. We talked about the news. We recommended each other books, films and music. We never talked about ourselves. It seemed like it would break the solitude. We knew nothing of each other, not our livelihoods, not our hobbies or dreams, not even our names were shared. In a world with only two people, names were not needed. A month into the routine, we began to share food and drink. Sandwiches and rice cakes wrapped in cling film, green tea in thermos flasks, and the like. We would sit by the pool's edge after our laps, eating and talking. We began to sit closer, but always in our own lane, and our voices became lighter, but always polite and respectful. Cautious even, for we knew that we had achieved a rare solitude, but one that was perched precariously on top of a pyramid of human desires.
One day, as she lowered herself into the water, I turned to look at her and saw a bruise of red skin on her shoulder. I pulled myself to look away - her body was none of my business - but my eyes laid transfixed as if pulled by magnets. She saw me staring and gave me a kind smile before pushing off the backboard. We did not talk that night. As I pushed off the back wall on my last lap she was sitting by the other end as she often did. By the time I had reached the front of the pool, she had disappeared. A rice cake and a thermos cup of green tea was left on the floorboards of my lane. I drank and ate alone, staring at the water as it steadied itself.
The woman did not come to the pool for a few days. A few days later, when she did come, she had a gash across her chest, and the bruise on her shoulder was still there. I smiled as I saw her, and she returned it, hesitantly. I glanced at her body for only a fraction of a second before I returned my gaze to the water, but I knew she had noticed, and I hoped she forgave me. We talked that night, eating ham and cheese sandwiches and sipping green tea. I had finished a book she recommended me, and so we discussed its meaning before parting ways.
A few days passed with no incidence. We would greet each other politely, swim our laps, share our food and talk about the world and its nothingness. Her body remained unchanged, yet nothing began to heal. Although I tried to stop myself, I could not help but catch a quick glance at her body as we saw each other. I hoped she did not mind so much, because it meant that I cared for her. But I knew that my care was corrosive, that it ran deep into people and in large doses it smothered and suffocated. And so I was careful not to bring up the topic, not to further our relationship beyond what it was.
That was how we spent the next three months. I would inspect her briefly, then avert my eyes. She would allow it to happen, then begin her laps. Over the course of this period I noticed a bruise on her stomach and a cut on her forearm. I noticed her left leg begin to limp as she kicked, her command in the water becoming weaker. On several nights I would see her cheeks red and puffed, and knew she had been crying. When she looked at me I saw a plea to let it all be, no matter how much it hurt me to do so.
I wonder if I did the right thing. If I should've said something, asked her, gave her my number or someone else's. Eventually, she did not come to the pool. I went in one day, at my usual hour, and saw a sandwich wrapped in clingfilm and a flask of tea by my lane. I finished my laps, and ate in silence. I knew that she would not come that night, and perhaps not for a while, but I hoped she would be back. I continued to visit the pool for several weeks, not knowing if I was doing it for my own solitude, or to see her. I wondered what had happened, whether she had sensed our delicate relationship about to collapse, or that something awful had happened to her. I despised myself for hoping more that it was the latter.
One day, as I reached the grounds of the building, I saw the doors bolted shut and a piece of paper plastered onto it. The pool was scheduled to be demolished the following week. I read the notice with a kind of surrendered acceptance. I knew I would have to find another place to hold my solitude. To this day I have yet to find it, but I hope I will soon. My days are filled with loud noises and loud people. To an extent I have become better at coping with it, at smiling when I am sad and faking enthusiasm when I deeply want escape. I long for it - to pull myself from the earthly world and float in a swimming pool. I hope that one day I can find another place to hold my solitude, and that if I do, a shadow would grace the waters.
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