The Chlorinated Afterglow

The deep end water temperature is seven degrees too warm. I walk across the tiling, the green enamel cup I left on the shelf vibrates. A child's drawing, crayon wax smeared on construction paper, shows the house with the pitched roof and the blue shutters. I stop at the shallow end where the chlorine smell is strongest. My brother stands at the ladder, wearing my old navy swim trunks. He is seven years younger than I am now. He picks up the drawing, smoothing the creases, and turns his head. The water shifts around his ankles, a sound that is a quick, steady rhythm. A different boy, his skin darker, enters the pool. He floats near the dividing line, his weight pulling the water down. The air holds the metallic scent of wet concrete.