Chlorine and The Forgotten Weight

The pool water is black under the sodium lamps, the air smelling of ozone and old vinyl. I stand near the shallow end, where the tiled floor is wet. Hanging on the hook by the vending machine is a heavy charcoal coat, wrong for the temperature, smelling of pine needles and rain that hasn't fallen. My fingers trace the initials stitched into the cuff—a 'J' overlapping an 'R'. I know, I am certain, that I left a key, a specific brass key, on the hall table inside the changing rooms. The ceiling above the deep end shows a sheet of grey rain, slow droplets falling down, moving without gravity, sticking to the tile work. The coats rack holds the names of people who arrive and leave, their dates marked by the faded green enamel of the tag. I turn, my weight shifting on the slick concrete, and the water vibrates a sound that is too high for a splash.