33. Flip Turn
T he light is different later in the afternoon. It’s less gray, less haunted. It’s still soft but warmer—the kind of sunlight that feels like a truce.
Getting out of bed, I open the windows. Air stirs through the apartment, slow and stale at first, then cooler.
The sheet stays where it fell, tangled on the floor like a skin no longer needed.
The smell of myself lingers: sweat, sleep, and old emotions.
I strip the bed, throw the sheets into the wash, and then shower before dressing, without having any specific plans for where to go or what to do. Right now, it’s just about movement.
I pull out the small knapsack Naomi gave me from a book fair she attended and throw in a swimsuit, an extra T-shirt, and a folded towel.
A borrowed copy of Giovanni’s Room from Naomi goes in, too.
On my way out, I glance once at the kitchen counter and see Kevin’s number still sitting there, folded. No need to touch it. Not right now.
The streets are quieter on Sunday afternoons.
The air hangs in that in-between stage of hot but forgiving.
By the time I reach Piedmont Park, my shirt clings to my back.
The weight of the sweat is a grounding reminder that this is real, that I’m present, not running from anything or rehearsing some conversation that’ll never happen.
The park is packed with people, although the pool house is less than a quarter full by this time of day.
It turns out to be Jazz Festival weekend—not something noticed until I arrived.
Laughter echoes off the concrete as a group of kids cannonballs into the shallow end.
An older man reads a magazine in the shade.
No one looks at me like I don’t belong, which I’m okay with. I’m not here to be seen by others.
Finding a chair by the edge, I peel off my shirt and sit down to catch my breath.
Just breathe . The water sparkles. It’s not seductive, nor symbolic.
It’s just water. The sound of performers drifts in from the grassy center of the park.
First, Etta James, then Dave Grusin, followed by Hiroshima.
It’s a who’s who list of contemporary jazz greats, and I recognize them all as I tilt my head back and listen, soaking in the afternoon sunshine.
It’s not the same heat I endure when cleaning pools—this is the kind of warmth that rejuvenates you as you relax.
When I slip into the pool, entry is slow. The water bites at first, and my skin tightens in surprise, but I don’t rush it. I sink under and let the water close over me, holding me without erasing me. When I surface, I don’t gasp.
I just breathe again.
There are three swim lanes roped off with floats, and one is open, so I take it.
Laps come easier than expected. I don’t race.
Instead, I swim casually down the lane and back again.
My arms remember the rhythm despite not having swum in years, except when I met Kevin at Emory last month.
Has it been five weeks already? It seems like it has been longer—and like no time at all, like the version of me who swam that day is still treading water somewhere.
At the deep end, I pause before the flip turn. Treading water, eyes tilted toward the sky, like I’m asking permission to come back different. The sun breaks through the clouds like it’s been waiting for me to notice it. I smile. It’s a small one, but it’s real, and no one needs to see it .
I switch to breaststroke until my muscles ache in a good way. Until the tension in my chest feels looser. Until I feel like I’m part of something again, not a person watching life from a distance.
Back on the concrete, wrapped in a towel, I sit in the last of the day’s sunlight and let the breeze brush my skin to dry it. My thoughts drift to Naomi and Mateo. It’s been a while since I’ve cooked something other than hot dogs or eggs. Maybe I’ll go home and listen to albums. I’m not sure yet.
Somewhere behind me, a saxophone trails off into applause, and a breeze lifts the edge of my towel like a quiet reminder that I’m still here. Here, but no longer drowning in the question. Whatever’s unresolved, it can come or go. I’ll be here either way. I’m not chasing it. Not anymore.