Last Swim BOBBY MATZUKA
The sensations of it are really unparalleled. There you are, almost eleven years old, walking alongside your sisters, one older and one younger. You feel a bit out of place, ducking through the halls of the hotel in your swim trunks. Still, your smile beams like it never will again. Your eyes blink a bit more than they usually do, but it doesn’t matter how tired you are. This is something you have to do. You can see it when you turn the corner, through a big glass wall. The water shimmers with an unnatural candy-blue reflection of the pool floor. White tiles surround the rims of it, and a collection of empty wooden chairs waits for you. You and your sisters are excited to see that no one else is in there. The place becomes all the more magical when you have it to yourself. And why shouldn’t you have it to yourself, here at seven o’clock in the morning? The glass door feels heavy, like it was vacuum-sealed shut. Your bare feet, just a moment ago squishing and sinking with every step into the carpet of the hotel halls, slap against the tiles. Right as you walk in, you say something just to hear the echo. You have no shame about it, so you shout “woohoo!” or something like that. Your older sister, more covert in her indulgence, asks you to grab some towels in a voice just loud enough to produce an echo. The only thing that could be more compelling than the acoustics is the smell. A sharp, humid scent of chlorine hangs in the air. It wouldn’t be so exciting if you had smelled it in your kitchen, or in your bathroom. But since you’re here, it’s the greatest smell in the world. On one of the chairs, you set down your things: the keycard that will let you back into your room, the towels you collected, and the quarter you brought along, in case you want to flip it into the depths and dive in search of where it lands. You try to step in from the stairs of the pool, but as your foot breaks the plane of water, it feels like ice has collected around it. You retreat back up the steps with a new plan. Mom and Dad always told you that the only 8 | Montage
