Kaleb, Hellenistic on the starting block: marbled muscle ready to explode. Then, a harsh electric wail and the transition of form. An arch through the air into the cool safety of the water, his body gliding through choppy currents of chlorine. Never first, but always almost first. Seconds delayed. The touch of the tips of the fingers or a graceless flip turn at the end of each length. I was always certain he could win. If only he had the resolve to go just a little further; to dig just a bit deeper.
During home meets I would sneak into the stands, sitting high up in the rafters to avoid his gaze. He would be embarrassed to see me. Maybe a little annoyed. Plus, I found a perverse sort of pleasure watching him like this. Tracking the way he warmed himself up before each swim: shaking his arms and stretching solid body into thin ropes of ready muscle. The natural flow of his body through the air into the pool, the pops of arm and face moving in perfect rhythm, and the inevitable exhaustion at the end of each lap–mouth wide open, chest heaving heavy, eyes straining to the scoreboard. It was romantic