Dear

        “Hello Dear. How was the swimming today?” Middle-aged salt and peppered pony-tailed man is getting into the car next to me. Do I know him? He called me ‘dear’ like I was someone he knew. But then, he probably calls all women dear. I should be offended by this, but I’m not.

        He’s got a presence of authority and weight. I wouldn’t dream of ignoring him. But do wonder if I know him or have chatted with him before.

            “It was great!” I exclaim. Because it had been.

When I’d arrived, checking in at the front window of Kennedy High Pool, I noted how the lifeguard lane chart displayed prominently on the counter in front of me was nearly empty. No red XX’s in any of the lanes except for one. Could that be true? Only one other swimmer was there today? “Looks like there’s lots of room,” I’d grinned behind my mask. Toto, one of the senior lifeguards, almost smiled, “It’s your own private pool.”

            I’d laughed. “I like that!” His smile broadened.

            And, when I’d walked out on deck, only Dori, the beauteous Cello Player, was swimming her languid flippered laps.

            It was a beautiful dream.

            So, now when Pony Tail man asks me about my swim, I can’t help but spread my delight. It was such a rare treat to have my own private pool!

            “What’s your stroke?” he asks me now.

            “Oh, lately I like backstroke, but honestly, I’m a freestyler. How about you?”

            “Freestyle.” He nods, opening the car door to his massive SUV. He leans on the open door, settling in for a chat. “I like a little breaststroke. I tried to master the butterfly…” He chuckles.

            “Yeah, me too,” I agree. “But I could only move forward with my flippers.”

            He nods, “And then I did some springboard. Some platform. My brother, he was a platform diver. On teams. Won some awards.”

            “Wow! That’s impressive,” I say. “I tried to do a little diving myself in high school, but too scary for me. I stuck to swimming.”

            “I understand,” he nods, pausing for a moment, gazing out at the street that runs by the pool. Two Canada geese honk overhead.

            “I played myself a little ice hockey, too.”

            “You were a real athlete!” I marvel.

            He nods, “Back in the day, maybe. Now, though, it’s good for my job.” He nods over at the high school but doesn’t elaborate on what his job is. I wonder if he’s the principal. He seems like a principal to me because of his weight, authority, and friendliness. But it would make sense that he's a coach, right? All that sport experience and knowledge of swimming.

            He heaves himself into the car, “You have a nice rest of your day, Dear.”

            “Yes, thanks, you too.” I open my car door and climb into the warmth of the front seat.

            He starts his engine and backs out quickly, speeding off to who knows where. Lunch? A tryst with his lover? Home to his wife? A drive down to the marina?

            As I start my engine, I wonder why he talked to me. Guess it was that swimmer common ground situation. And proximity. And I just invite conversation?

            I turn on Beethoven. Back out of the parking space and head out of the lot. More Canada geese fly overhead as Alfred Brendel’s hands dance over the keyboard. I turn up the radio. And grin and grin and grin!

Alfred Brendel plays Beethoven's Sonata no 1