A story about getting older.
I have spent a not inconsiderable amount of time finding out when the pool is empty of other visitors. Or as near empty as it gets. I come here on Mondays at half past one. On my way in, the guilty heads back to work. The ones who skip lunch the first day of the week.
Though, who am I to be smug?
Molly once told me when we were still on speaking terms that your every curve starts to sag at 45. I didn't believe her, but now, here I am, hiding. No longer do I have the body of a heroine. Or the courage.
Here I stand. Here, I slip into the water. Here, Hermione Granger has found four lanes of solitude. I stretch my arms out and move with slow, meditative breaststrokes toward the other side. In the water, my body is light. The bathing suit keeps everything in place.
Is this worry about getting old like an illness that will eventually run its course? Is this scared Hermione, who swims alone and hides away in the changing room restroom so no one will see her naked, a visitor only? I don't know who she is, yet I am her, and I want to see the back of her.
When did I stop falling in love?
I think when I stopped falling in love, I stopped loving myself. I turned away from the gaze of others. This unlovable me must not be seen.
The water is soothing, but this comfort is loneliness. I cannot fathom who would want to join me.
Harry invited me to dinner, but I couldn't bear it. I don't want him to see me take tiny, tiny steps like an old woman.
One stroke, two, touch the tiles, turn. One stroke, two, three…