The Lifeguard Chair After Closing

I was nineteen, lifeguard certified, sunburnt ego. Coach Miles ran swim clinic—thirty-two, divorced, professional in daylight.

Closing shift meant checking gates, logging chemicals, listening to water settle. Miles stayed with paperwork that could have waited.

"You're fast in the water," he said.

"You've seen one practice."

"I've seen you watch the clock."

We sat on the lifeguard chair like kids. Chlorine and coconut sunscreen. His knee touched mine. Not accident.

"If this is a bad idea," I said, "say so."

"It's a bad idea."

"Okay."

He kissed me anyway—quick, testing. I kissed back longer.

The pool deck was public and empty, which felt more daring than a bedroom. We did not go all the way there; restraint made a border we crossed later in his car, windows fogged, heart loud.

Summer ended. College started. He texted once: "Be well."

I am well. I am also someone who learned desire on painted concrete under security cameras that had been turned off.

Sometimes I drive past the pool in winter, covered in tarps, and feel nineteen in my bones again.

First jobs teach skills. Sometimes they teach hunger too.