She Watches Him Swim
Veronica lays her handbag on the little white plastic table, kicks off her pink flip-flops, and arranges herself on the sun chair. She catches Harold’s eye; he’s sitting at the edge of the pier looking over his shoulder at her while dipping his feet in the lake. He’s naked. She’s not. She’s wearing a dark grey one-piece bathing suit with green piping. She doesn’t mind being naked in the heat of passion, but otherwise her breasts always get in the way. What’s the big deal with men and nudity?
There’s no-one to see them out here at the isolated cottage of Harold’s Uncle Davey, as Harold had reminded her a few times – when they were packing; en route, while they drove; and again when they were unpacking – not so subtly hinting that he’d enjoy it if she could try a few days without clothes. She knew she could be too uptight, but she wouldn’t make herself uncomfortable just so Harold could get a kick. Regardless, to make sure he wouldn’t take her subsequent clothed state the wrong way, she’d initiated a hot, enthusiastic bout of sex – doing several things she knew he especially liked – before they’d completely settled in for their holiday.
This is Harold’s cottage now. Hers, too. His uncle died and left him a surprisingly comfortable inheritance. Not nearly enough to live on for the rest of their lives, but enough to make some substantial changes and improvements. Already, even though Harold won’t receive the bulk of the estate until next year, she’s been making plans with that money. She hasn’t shared these ideas with him. Whenever they talk about plans and the future, it turns into a quarrel. Plans make Harold panic.
Grinning, Harold waves at her. She yawns when she waves back. In the aftermath of sex she tends to gets drowsy.
He stands up. The way the early afternoon sun hits his golden curls and his broad, sculpted shoulders makes him look like Apollo, the Greek god of the sun. Then he ruins the moment. Jumping awkwardly into the insanely large private lake, without the slightest hint of poise, Harold is more buffoon than god.
The glare from the sky gets in her eyes, so she reaches into her handbag. She finds her sunglasses and puts them on.
She watches Harold swim. It occurs to her that he swims like he lives: randomly, with no style and no plan.
Planning out her life makes her feel safe, secure. Lack of planning makes her tense and withdrawn.
Veronica’s career is on the right path. She was recently given a promotion at the marketing firm. In the last five years, she’s received three substantial raises. She worked hard and planned carefully to earn those rewards. She wants to make partner, and she’ll make it happen.
Harold is the store manager for the main outlet of a local independent CD chain. He makes less than twice minimum wage; there’s no higher to climb on that miniature corporate ladder; and he has no further ambition. He’s been working at that same store for the twelve years they’ve been together. At 22, she’d hadn’t had the foresight to imagine how things would play out, given how different the two of them were. How different they still are. More different than ever, maybe. Harold was just this tall, easy-going, goofy-charming, nice guy who kissed better than anyone. Sure, she’d fallen in love. Sure, she married him.
Look at him. He’s not even trying to use any technique. Couldn’t he at least attempt a breaststroke? Or a front crawl? Or even a dog paddle? No – he’s just splashing around, barely keeping afloat. He can’t even tread water reliably. Sometimes, he can appear to be such a moron, and she forgets that she loves him.
The ironic thing is that Harold adores the water; it’s almost mystical the attraction it has for him. But he doesn’t know how to swim properly. Harold’s like that about everything. He’s never managed to learn anything. He loves music, and knows more trivia than anyone should ever care about, but he can’t hold a tune, read sheet music, or play an instrument.
It’s not about how things work, he says, it’s more important how they live in your imagination. Whatever that means. Sounds like a rationalization for laziness to her.
And yet, Harold isn’t exactly lazy. He does more than his share of chores with no complaints. He’s dedicated to his dead-end job. He even exercises: goes running every morning before Veronica wakes up, then rouses her with vigorous, sweaty sex. She likes that. Always starting the day off with a bang. Or two, sometimes.
The nice thing about Harold is that he genuinely likes women. Most men say they do, but they don’t, not really. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em is a motto most guys don’t admit to anymore, but they think it anyway. She notices it in their lack of empathy, their impatience with anything they can’t immediately grasp – like a woman’s point of view. Like a woman’s way of doing things.
Harold is different. He’s endlessly fascinated by women. He reads mostly female authors – fiction, philosophy, feminism, memoirs, you name it. His favourite singers and musicians include a large number of women – not the teenybopper dance vixens, but real musicians, including jazz players, composers, punks, rockers, and a lot of hard to classify crossgenre iconoclasts – most of whom Veronica had never heard of before. He has a keen eye for picking just the right clothes and jewellery for her – often stuff she would never have thought of trying herself.
And Harold’s kissing ... not like a prelude to something else, but like the kiss itself is what matters. Like the taste of a woman in his mouth is most delicious taste ever.
Like the taste of Veronica is the most delicious taste ever.
Yet, she’s been wondering whether she should call it quits with Harold.
Really, she should have left years ago. But Harold is affectionate and strong and steadfast. It’s a comfortable life.
She wants more. Maybe this money will make life a bit better, but Harold himself won’t change. He won’t suddenly start dressing sharply. Start a new career that’ll take him places. Learn something that might enrich both their lives in a substantial fashion. She’d settle for being shocked. Sometimes, she fantasizes that Harold is keeping a dark secret that, once revealed, would entirely change the way she thinks of him and their life together.
When Veronica isn’t nestled in the coziness of their home, she often finds herself embarrassed by her marriage to Harold. She might be alone running errands, or taking a walk with him, or having dinner with friends, or speaking with co-workers, and then it hits her. Shame. Inadequacy. Everyone else their age seems so adult, like Veronica wants to be. But she feels stunted by Harold’s permanent, incurable adolescence.
In the past two years, she’s had three affairs. Harold doesn’t know. It would devastate him. Well, two of them would. The third one would probably make him excited, and maybe just a little wounded that he wasn’t included. Her yoga instructor, Ingrid.
The other two, though – it would be cruel to ever tell him. There was Tim, an ambitious and sleek colleague who’d been on loan from the London office. If he hadn’t been married, she’d have seriously considered leaving Harold for him. Then there was Gustave, a burly and completely inappropriate man whom she’d met at the gym; he was too rough with her, and his attitudes about women were pre- Cambrian, but he’d made her come – with her screaming like a porn starlet – harder than anyone ever had. As skillful as Harold was, he’d never made her scream. Still, sex wasn’t everything, and she could barely stand Gustave’s company unless his cock was ramming into her. That one had ended only a few weeks ago.
What’s all that commotion? Oh.
Is he...?
Yes, Harold’s in trouble. His arms are flailing too nervously to do him any good; he’s gulping in more water than he can cough out; and he’s too far from either the pier or the shore.
Mmm. She hadn’t planned this ... but she’s not entirely inflexible. Harold should be proud: he’s constantly bugging her to be more flexible and spontaneous.
Veronica stays still. Behind her sunglasses, for all Harold knows, she’s fallen asleep.
She watches him try to swim to safety. It doesn’t seem likely that he’ll succeed.