in the first moment, the world is made of silk.

a cadence of dancing bubbles that slide against my skin, the cool touch of the water, my shadow sweeping along the bottom, heedless of the gritty surface which must tear it to bits.

within the first four laps i can feel the fatigue building in my shoulders and triceps, and the sense that i am being held up by some gentle entity fades. now, my movement is my own.

another ten or twenty laps, and i find the rhythm of the water. from here, i can swim forever. the aching in my muscles stabilizes and won't increase, the gulp of air between strokes is the perfect amount to bridge the time before i take another. never, once i find this place, have i had to stop for any reason other than because i chose to.

i watch the clock, and i don't count the laps. at eleven forty-five, i surprise the wall by extending my hand rather than swirling away with a flex of calves and thighs against breifly anchored feet. hauling myself out of the water, gravity gleefully restakes its claim. my grace slips down my arms to drip off pruney fingers and puddle around my feet. later, the crimsondyed towel will brusquely disenchant the rest, and as i dry i am returned to the gawky, landbound creature that accidentally stepped on her design project an hour before it was due.