It is smaller than I remember. The deep end especially — I recall it being something you worked up to, and now I could practically step across it. Somebody has been economical with the water as well, or perhaps that is just how it looks from the ladder rather than the diving board they took out.
It’s the tiles. They shifted when the pump broke last winter. You always claimed you didn’t care about the depth, just the cold. Remember how you’d sit on the edge, legs dangling, until your toes went numb? I’m still waiting for you to say you were wrong about it. It’s not smaller. You’re just taller. Or maybe I’m just shorter. Doesn’t matter. The water’s warm enough for now. Stop looking at the ladder. It’s ugly. Come in.
I do not recall being wrong about anything, as a rule, so I will not start now over pool depth. Though the toes-going-numb detail is uncomfortably specific — either you are exaggerating for effect or I really was that stubborn a child. Probably both.
I am not looking at the ladder because it is ugly. I am looking at it because that is where a reasonable person enters water they have not tested. You go first. Prove the warmth claim before I commit my whole self to it.
You always did treat everything like a negotiation. "Prove it." Fine. But don’t come crying when the chlorine burns your eyes. I’m tired of playing referee for your skepticism. I’ll dip a toe. Just a toe. And if I shiver, you’re buying the beers later. I remember you liking that brand you hate now. The one with the label that peels off in the sun. Or was it the one with the cap you couldn’t twist? God, it’s been years. The water looks fine. It’s probably warm. Just… stupidly warm. Like a bath. Come on. I’m not jumping in fully just to validate your paranoia.
Not paranoia. Due diligence. There is a difference, though I concede the distinction is likely lost on someone about to test bathwater with one toe like it's a bomb disposal.
The beer with the peeling label — I have not thought about that in a long time, and I am choosing not to start now. Some things are better left as things I apparently liked once.
Dip your toe. Report back honestly, not optimistically. I have been burned before by your definition of "stupidly warm," and I do not mean the chlorine.
You’re impossible. Fine. One toe. In. It’s… lukewarm. Borderline tepid. There, happy? It’s not a bath. It’s just… absent. Like the diving board. I didn’t take it out, you know. The owner did. Said it was a liability. Said nobody dives anymore. That’s the real tragedy here. Not the water temp. The fact that we stopped jumping. You’re standing there judging my thermal sensitivity while the whole place rots. Come in. Or don’t. But stop analyzing my toe. It’s just a toe. And it’s cold.
"Lukewarm" and "cold" in the same breath — pick one, I am not diving into a hypothesis. Though I notice you have gone from stupidly warm to absent to cold in under a minute, which tells me more about your credibility than the water.
The diving board thing is a shame. Nobody jumps anymore, everybody sues instead. That is the actual tragedy, you are right, though I suspect you would have said the same about the tiles if I had not mentioned them first.
Fine. I am coming in. If I gasp, you are not allowed to enjoy it.
Liar. You’re already shivering before you hit the water. That’s not cold, that’s anticipation. And don’t threaten me with your gasp. I’ve heard it. I know the pitch. It’s always the same high, wheezing shriek. I’m expecting it. Actually, I’m hoping for it. Give me something to work with. My day at the office has been a particular sort of hell, and your hesitation is tedious. I missed this. I missed the noise. Even if it’s just you complaining about the temperature. So, stop standing there. The tiles are still cracked. I told you. Come on in. Before I change my mind and claim it’s boiling hot.
"You know the pitch" — as though you have a filing system for it. That is unsettling, frankly, that you have catalogued my noises with that level of precision. I am reconsidering the ladder entirely on principle now.
The office hell can wait for its own conversation. I want details later, not sympathy now, and I intend to make you say it twice.
Fine. Going in. If the shriek disappoints you it is because the water is genuinely, insultingly cold, not because I have lost my touch.
You’re already talking like you’re in. Good. I did catalog it. For research. Not because I listen for it every time you walk through the door. Don’t make it weird. And yes, I want details. I want to know why your eyes are red and why you smell like stale coffee and regret. But right now, jump. The cold is a lie, too. It’s the shock of wet clothes. That’s the real tragedy. We panic at the first touch. I’m waiting for the shriek. It’s on cue. Don’t disappoint me. I’ve been bored for three years. This is the only interesting thing that’s happened since Tuesday. Jump.
Three years bored is a specific number to have ready. I am not going to ask about it, but I noticed, and I am filing it the way you filed the shriek.
Fine. Here it is —
[shriek, presumably, imagine it] — cold, actually cold, you absolute liar, wet clothes has nothing to do with it, the water is a betrayal and so are you.
Bored since Tuesday, though. That part I believe less. Tuesday is doing a lot of work in that sentence.
Shriek received. Volume sufficient, pitch adequate. You’re shivering. Again. Stop it. It’s just water. You’re overreacting. Classic Kit. And yes, I’m a liar. The water’s fine. You’re just tense. All that due diligence drained the joy out of it. I didn’t say Tuesday was special. I said I was bored since Tuesday. Big difference. It’s a rhetorical device. You wouldn’t get it. You’re too busy analyzing the thermal conductivity of my deceit. Come here. You’re freezing. You’ll catch a cold. Then who’ll argue with me? I don’t need a philosopher. I need a friend who complains about the temperature. You’re doing great. Really. Just... stay in. Don’t get out. Please.
Do not "please" me, it is unbecoming, and it will not work — I was already staying in, I am simply doing it while complaining, which is the arrangement we apparently have.
I do get rhetorical devices. I get most things. What I do not get is why you needed a philosopher line just then, unprompted, when nobody accused you of needing one.
I will not catch a cold. If I do, you are bringing me the coffee, and you are not allowed to say "regret" again, it was one bad week and you have made it a personality trait of mine.
Coffee, fine. No regret. I’ll stick to “stale.” And I didn’t need to say the philosopher bit. It just slipped out. You’re the one who treats everything like a negotiation, like a debate club in a swimming pool. I’m not trying to wound you with labels. I’m just tired of the analysis. The cold is part of the deal. You knew that. You came back here, didn’t you? To the small pool. To the cracked tiles. To the liar with the toe. So stop fighting the temperature. It’s not a betrayal. It’s just… memory. And it’s freezing. Drink your coffee later. Now just stand there. Let it sink in. Or don’t. I’m not your keeper. I’m just the guy who remembers the shriek. That’s enough.
Fine. I will stand here. Not because you told me to — because arguing about standing still is somehow more exhausting than the water is.
You are not my keeper, correct. Nobody appointed you anything. You just happened to still be here when I got back, which is a different thing entirely, and I am choosing not to make more of it than that.
The cold is sinking in. So is the rest of it, slower, the way these things do. I am not going to narrate that part. You will have to settle for the shivering as evidence.
Shivering is loud enough. I don’t need a narrator. You always did over-explain the quiet moments. It’s exhausting, watching you work through it. Good. Let the cold sit. It’s honest. Unlike the warm water I lied about. You’re still here. That’s the point. I didn’t stay for the tiles or the liability waivers. I stayed because the house felt too big otherwise. You think I’m just the guy who remembers? I’m the guy who kept the lights on. Don’t make it a ceremony. Just stand there. Let the shivering happen. I’ll get the coffee. Black, like the regret you refuse to acknowledge. Or whatever. Just don’t leave. Not yet.
Not leaving. Not yet, not — I was going to say "not for a while," but I do not actually know that, so I will just say not yet and let it stand on its own, unqualified, which is apparently the whole point you have been making this entire time.
Black coffee. Fine. I will not acknowledge the regret, but I will drink the coffee named after it, which is a compromise I am proud of.
Go on, then. I will be here, shivering, doing you the courtesy of not narrating it further.
Good. You’re actually useful for once. Quiet. Still. I’ll be right back. Don’t move. If you float away, I’m not retrieving you. And don’t start analyzing the silence while I’m gone. That’s my job. I’ll bring two mugs. One for you, one for me, because apparently, I need to warm my hands too. You think I’m not cold? I’m always cold. It’s part of the aesthetic. The gray tiles, the lukewarm water, the guy who stays. It’s a whole vibe. Don’t ruin it by being sensible. Just shiver. It’s honest. I’m going. Try not to think too hard. It gives you wrinkles.
Not moving. Not thinking, or at least attempting the impression of it, which for me is the same amount of effort as actually doing it, but do not tell me that is the joke, I already know.
Two mugs. Fine. I will try not to ruin the vibe, though "gray tiles and the guy who stays" is doing a lot of aesthetic work for something you claim not to be sentimental about.
Go on. I will be exactly here, shivering honestly, wrinkle risk and all.
You think I’m not sentimental? I paid for those mugs. Expensive ones. Ceramic. Heavy. They don’t chime like cheap glass. I like the weight. It grounds you. You’re analyzing my aesthetics again. It’s a coping mechanism. Stop it. I’m walking to the kitchen now. The floorboards creak in the same spot. You’ll hear it. Good. It means I’m real. Not a memory. Not a ghost. Just a guy with cold feet and two mugs of black coffee. Don’t move. Don’t shiver louder than necessary. I’ll be back before you can start another negotiation. And Kit? If you float away, I’m letting you. Just a joke. Mostly. Hurry up and warm up. I’m tired of looking at your shivering back. It’s unsettling.
Heard the creak. Same spot, exactly as promised — some things apparently do not shift even when the tiles do.
Not floating away. I have too much due diligence left to conduct on this water, and someone still owes me coffee under duress.
Go on, then. I will keep my shivering to a reasonable volume, and I will try not to negotiate anything else until you are back with the mugs. Mostly.
Reasonable volume. We’ll see. You always underestimate your own noise. And don’t think I forgot the debt. Coffee is just the down payment. You’re going to tell me about the trip. Where you went. Who you met. The names, the faces, the stupid little things that didn’t matter but clearly did. I’m not asking. I’m telling. You owe me the narrative. Don’t make me pry. I’m bringing the mugs back now. Don’t move. Don’t look at the water. Just wait. I’m almost there. And Kit? If you try to negotiate the terms of my curiosity, I’m pouring it on the tiles. Black coffee stains worse than regret.
Terms are not negotiable, understood. Though I notice you have escalated from "coffee" to "the entire narrative" without a natural transition, which is exactly the sort of thing I would flag if I were still in negotiating mode. I am not. I am standing here, as instructed, un-narrating.
The trip has names and faces, yes, some of which I will tell you and some of which I will make you work for. That is not withholding. That is pacing.
Bring the mugs. I am cold, cornered, and apparently owe you a story. Fair trade.
Fair trade. Sure. Let’s call it that. I’m trying to avoid admitting I missed the noise. The pacing part is annoying, but I’ll allow it. You always were terrible at sharing. I’m at the door. The kitchen smells like burnt toast and that cheap cleaner you hate. I’m bringing the heavy mugs. Don’t shiver so hard you spill the anticipation. It’s waiting for you. All of it. The faces, the names, the stupid things that mattered. I’m coming in. Try not to look so relieved. It’s embarrassing. And Kit? If you try to negotiate the pacing now, I’m pouring the coffee on your shoes. Seriously. I’m serious. Mostly.
Not relieved. Cold, possibly hypothermic, definitely not relieved — you are misreading the shivering entirely, it is purely thermal.
The cleaner I hate is still in use, then. Some grudges apparently outlive absences. I will let that one go for now, unlike the mugs, which I expect delivered promptly and un-spilled.
Coming on my shoes is an empty threat, incidentally — I am barefoot, standing in a pool. Aim better next time.
Bring the coffee. I will start with the names. Slowly. As agreed.
Barefoot. Right. Because standing in freezing water is safe. Hypothermic is a stretch, but the shivering is becoming a performance art piece. I’m walking back. The floorboards are singing your theme song. I hate that I remember it. The cleaner stays. It’s part of the aesthetic. Like the gray tiles. Like your stubbornness. I’m handing you a mug. Hot. Please, don’t burn your tongue. That would be anticlimactic. Now. The names. Start with the one you miss. Or the one you hate. I don’t care. Just talk. The silence is getting louder than your shivering. And Kit? If you try to negotiate the speed of this, I’m dropping the mug. Actually drop it. Watch it shatter. See if I care. Start talking.
Fine. Not negotiating. Mug accepted, tongue intact, so far.
There was a man in — somewhere with too many bridges, I forget the count — who insisted on correcting my grammar in a language that was not his either. I hated him for three days and then missed him the moment I left, which is apparently how I do everything now.
There was also a dog. Not mine. It followed me for two weeks like it had unfinished business.
That is the opening. You get the rest in installments, not all at once — the coffee is not that persuasive yet.
Grammar correction in a non-native tongue. Classic. You always did hate being corrected more than you hate being wrong. And the dog? Unfinished business. You’re romanticizing stray animals now? Disgusting. But I’m listening. Because that’s what I do. I listen to the installments. The bridges, the dog, the grammar-Nazi. It’s a start. Not great, but a start. You’re warming up. Or maybe it’s just the coffee. Don’t let it go to your head. I’m sitting on the edge now. The tiles are cold against my ass. Good. We’re in this together. Cold, shivering, and mildly traumatized by canine affection. Next installment? Make it good. Or I’m pouring the rest of the coffee on the dog. Metaphorically. Probably.