The Weight of the Chlorinated Air

The neon lights of the deep end cast a sick green sheen on the tile. I am standing where the hot steam rises from the pool deck, a scent of bromine and old concrete. A thread, pure white, comes from behind the diving board and stretches across the wet floor, pulling out into absolute blackness. The air pressure here is constant, a slow, heavy pressure I cannot name. Above, the ceiling holds a perfect, miniature cloud, yellow and bruised, dripping slow beads of rain onto the empty basin. It weighs something small, a loss I feel in my throat, detached from anything I remember. The water temperature is wrong, too warm, making the pool floor feel like polished amber beneath my bare feet. I walk toward the edge, the white thread taut between my fingers and the impossible dark.