Same seam, same word

She said "swimmer" at the door. In front of the room. In front of my kids. Not "coach" or even "the new trainer" — "swimmer." Like I'm a draft from a different life that's been folded into this one and the fold showed. Eight pairs of eyes turned and I had to take it with my mouth closed. I said yeah. That was enough.

She said brave after. Brave. I think brave is something you can only call someone else from a doorway.

I went down on the same seam. Same ankle, same mat, same bad shoulder eating the canvas. The joint made a sound I don't want to name because if I name it I have to think about Saturday. The parent had the phone out before I got to my feet. It's already on the parents' group. I asked her to delete it. I shouldn't have asked. Asking is its own kind of floor.

Rob's known me long enough to read the after. I asked him for a hard round Saturday. I asked the way you ask for something when the alternative is the ute in your own street and no drive anywhere.

Phone face-down on the bench while I ate. I am not checking the group. I am not checking the group at three in the morning and I am not checking it now.