Who do you want to touch?

You want to touch her. The girl in lane five. You want to drag fingertips across the rough softness of her suit over belly. you imagine what the skin underneath feels like. Probably soft like a baby mouse. you think this because of the mousy countenance that you can see from the west dside of the pool every couple of strokes. She's not a mouse, but a mouse is the first thing that somes to your mind. There's something about her stature, too. The way she sits, leaning a bit foreward, bending the back between narrow shoulder blades. She's not strong, not weak.

She is the child of true flower children. You like her because she lent you a dress and said you looked good. You only wear it the one time and never give it back. You slide your hand between your skin and the fabricof the dress, pretending that it is her skinunder your nervous palms. surely her skin must be softer, the gentle curve of her belly more pleasing as it meets with her legs and dives into forbidden waters. As she climbs out of the pool you want to hug her in congratulations on her third or fourth place finish, let the warm beads of water on her body soak into your t-shirt, making little wet spots of desire on your chet and stomach.