Swimming in Blue Jeans.

Last night.

Long day.

Caps thrown. Banners flown.

Diploma on the kitchen table with a sign book next to it. Paper cups now half empty. Dusk has come and gone, as have the 'just dropped by' guests.

Meet her instructor. Meet her dad.

Shake hands. Firm grip, guarded smile.

She's left the cap and gown for a swimsuit. Soaked me with water. One last prank? What to do?

Same as always, sit still. Came prepared, change of clothes in my bag. Along with the letter telling her to have a good life.

My internal monologue doesn't need a sensor. "Fuck it" Boots off. Wallet. Watch. Keys. Tighten the belt.

Into the pool.

Head first.

Roll over, underwater, feel like a seal.

Sink.

Swimming in Blue Jeans.

Pivot, feel the grip of denim against skin. Say hello. Make a few jokes.

Get in a few imaginary fights. Dunk a few people under.

The normal games. Get tag-teamed by the girls. Grin and bear it, bite my tongue and don't make any sarcastic comments.

Play nice.

Pivot. Lap. Kick off the far wall and let myself be consumed by the tiny pool. As if I were just another droplet in the ocean. Drifting, sinking, rising. Never sitting still.

But all things must end, even swimming in Blue Jeans.

Climb out, dry off. Change, awkwardly.

Play a few games. Teach them a new one--Taxi!

Quick goodbyes. Others leaving too. Easy drop. Step out into the hall. Lean into her room. Drop the letter on her dresser.

Hug goodbye. Forget to tell her Dad that he should be proud.

Remember as you start up the cycle. Ohwell.

Helmet on. Long drive home, and the temperature dropping.

Let the chill permeate me as I permeated the pool.

Cyclic.

Night air clings to my skin. Whistles past my helmet. After midnight, mist springs up, kisses me and slides away.

Swimming in Blue Jeans.