He Had the Widest Back

“Nothing matters once you’re in the water. Tattoos don’t mean fucking shit, and neither do piercings, like your fucking nose one.” He’d tell me on the way to his swim meet, stretching out his hulking arm muscles as we stopped at the lights that never worked, just the orange one blinking wearily. It was a job, to direct traffic there, and he was one of the people that had to do it, wearing a fluorescent safety jacket. He’d grunt at his co – worker as we drove past, and then continue talking animatedly about his swimming. I loved it – it was one of the small moments where he was just a normal late teenage, almost early twenties boy, just chasing his dreams.

He would climb out of the water, all glistening upper body, water droplets clinging to his skin that was just beginning to blossom and be covered in goose bumps and tight nylon, and he’d say, “I swiped a few seconds off my time,” and I’d think about giving him the towel while giving him a not – so – discreet once over, and he’d yank it from my hands but it wouldn’t matter because for once he was finally happy.

We’d think about going out for lunch to celebrate his new personal record, but then we’d wind up going back to my place and I’d help him remove his shirt and I’d run my hands over his limbs and toned back. He’d stop our kissing and say, “we’re not going there,” and he’d whip out a smoke and we’d talk about the future – his least favourite topic, but one that I could drag on for days about. After letting him have a few drags, I’d steal the cigarette from his fingertips and throw it out the window, after putting it out via the concrete wall. He’d sigh and I’d stare at his lips a little and he’d get the hint. My parents would show up, mouthing obscenities at us as my mother walked in on my hand dancing lower than it possibly should be, and my dad standing solemnly behind her, not agreeing but not cutting her off either.

Then he’d become insecure and I’d receive the brunt, I’d offer him a cigarette, fumbling through his pockets to find his beloved Marlboro pack. “You fucker, why’d you go and pinch that? The only fag you ever have is me.” He’d swear till he was red in the face, and I’d desperately try and calm him down, because that was my job. He’d apologise and I’d be meek until he pulled me down for a kiss, and I’d try and forget the burning sensation that was his mouth with a cigarette just gone.

We’d find a park and sit on the swings, my long legs sitting his lap as he idly swung. He’d be dark and brooding and shoot down all of my fantasies – “we’ll buy a house together by the sea, and have a romantic dinner with an abundance of candles,” I’d say, and he’d respond with, “we’re too poor, and you’re allergic to salt water.” I’d give him a half smile and he’d shake his head and turn his head to the sky which seemed to always be grey.