The Green Tile Light

The chlorine smells thick. I stand at the edge of the pool where the mosaic tile is wet, a milky color. Overhead, the ceiling holds a small rain, a steady mist that falls without sound. I pull a heavy coat from the back of the bench; the wool is slate grey and smells of damp pipe tobacco. It belongs to a man with hands that have not yet met mine. My chest carries an ache, a specific, hollow throb that is not mine. Someone else feels it. The water laps, a wet, slow weight against my ankles. I hear the drip of the mist on the plastic depth markers. I turn, counting the painted lines on the wall: five, six, seven. The metal handrail is cold, the temperature of forgotten coins.