Two sorts of breaks:
I swim and float and twirl, waiting for thirty minutes to pass. Perhaps I shouldn't make swimming an exercise the way I have with running. Maybe I won't. Either way it feels good to move through chilly water. The right feeling. That this is one of the few activities that has nothing to do with anyone I once knew.
A wave bobs behind me - I dive down - the thought: They're breaking, but I'm not.
On Sunday night (Monday morning?), I drive Beth's car down the highway. Lightning sketches the sky but our music's too loud for thunder. I'm more alert than I am in my car; I see every approaching headlight. I've just picked up the Poppin' Pink Lemonade when brakelights go red ahead of me. I brake, too, and then the water: bullets of rain blinding windshield. Beth takes the cup from my hand. But I only need one hand on the wheel. I know it already: I've got this.
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