It was 92 degrees, second day of our trip. You ordered
our admission in German and we separated
to change into swimsuits. On the ladies' side,
the square, muscled woman—every movie's ballbusting
psych ward nurse—glanced at my white ticket
and pointed her thick finger to a certain door. It led
to the rooftop, but you were nowhere
among the hundreds of splashing bathers.
Terror closed down my throat
like a defunct automobile factory. I retreated
into the changing room and again the muscular aide
pointed me outside; the syllables of her scolding
waddled through my ears like a brown bear
heavy on its haunches. There was no option
except to hide. I waited until the gatekeeper
turned to fold towels and then, sweating like a spy
on her first mission, I slipped through a narrow opening
between two identical grey walls and saw
you, peacefully swimming laps in the indoor pool.
I shook. I couldn't even call your name.
A sob escaped my chest and you recognized it
like a secret handshake. Your shoulders bobbed up
as I put my hand to my heart. You turned
toward me, pulled yourself out of the water,
and embraced me with both arms. Laced
your fingers through my hair. Assured me
over and over that nothing could separate us.