by John Lowry

I was swimming, doing my weekly three miler off Jones Beach. It was early, the water heavy and smooth, flashing like a Christmas tree. I liked the peace, the gulls, the sounds of boats invisible in the fog off shore.

I saw a swimmer. Long brown arms, red bathing cap. A woman. I caught up and fell in beside her with a smile. Her nod said it was OK. We swam for a mile or so before taking a break. I'm Demos, I said, treading water and holding out my hand. Oh, how nice. Stella, she said, taking my wet hand in hers. Brown eyes, long eyelashes. Her lipstick is bright red. Really good looking. A powerboat came drifting out of the fog, two guys in the back holding beers and waving.

We start swimming again. We're kind of close. Our legs touch, our hips bump. As though on a signal, we stop, throw our arms around each other and kiss. Oh, it's a nice kiss. Wet and salty. We don't want to stop. And then we sink, still kissing. We break apart and swim to the surface, taking deep breaths and looking at one another. We're being silly, she said. Right, I said, let's swim.

But we do it again. I slip away the straps of her suit. She slides her hands down my back, grabs my ass. We sink faster, deeper. The gold light becomes green. Again, we break off, wiggling to the surface, bursting out of the water with open mouths, sucking at the air. We lay on our backs, holding each other's eyes.

We hear shouts. Stella jumps as though something bit her toe. Oh, God, my husband! Husband? The word feels like a bullet whistling by my ear. I can see a guy waving his arms and screaming. Stella puts her straps back in place. Let's go, I say! But it's too late. The guy swims up. He has bulging shoulders, a black mustache. His eyes are blazing. He's making sounds like a wounded animal. He starts throwing punches, missing wildly, churning the water. Sam, what are you doing? Stop, Stella screams! I splash water into his eyes, figuring it would slow him down. It just infuriates him more. Stella starts swimming to shore and I follow.

Suddenly, he's screaming. Help! Help me! We turn. He's hyperventilating, his face going bluish in front of our eyes. He's drowning, Stella says! Watch out, it's a trick, I say. Water starts covering his face. He tries to wipe it away. Stella, he cries! Don't let me die!

We swim to him, each of us taking an arm. We try to tow him, swimming with our free arms. But it's hard. It's like towing a refrigerator. He keeps slipping away. He grabs Stella, wrapping himself around her. No, Sam, don't, she shouts! He's dragging her down.

Two lifeguards paddle up on surfboards. One of them slips a flotation device over Sam's head. You're OK buddy, he says. Just hold on. They start towing him to shore. I look at Stella. But she's already swimming.

The usual crowd has gathered, everyone wanting to see the guy who almost drowned. The lifeguards sit him down and wrap him in a blanket. His face is still blue, he's shaking. A guy with a Red Cross vest comes running. He takes Sam's pulse, puts an oxygen mask on his face, giving him the bottle to hold. The crowd loses interest. Stella kneels next to him, tries to take his hand but he won't let her. After a few minutes, he pulls off the oxygen mask. I'm fine, he says.

I walk to my blanket, towel off and drink some water. A woman lowers her magazine and looks at me. I see Stella walking Sam to their chairs, set under a blue umbrella with something red streaking across it. His legs are wobbly. After he sits down, he looks in my direction. It's not a friendly look.

It's time to call it a day. I decide I'm hungry and stop by the Food Court. There's a wide, circular counter, metal tables and chairs that look like they had been used for target practice. The floor is wet and kids run around in their bare feet, ignoring a sign says they shouldn't. I get a cup of ice cream and sit down at a table. I pick up my spoon and notice that my hand is shaking. Stella comes in. She spots me and walks over, sitting down on the edge of a chair. He's waiting for his coffee, she says. When I say nothing, she goes on. I guess I want to thank you. You did help. I nod. I'm thinking, wow, she looked different than she did in the water. Her hair is streaked with gray. Her lips look cracked and old. And the water must have filled out her bathing suit. She's thin as a stick. She smiled. My, you're a lot shorter than I thought you were, she says. We're interrupted. Sam comes rushing in. He stops short when he sees us. Jesus! What now, he shouts? He starts running towards us but his feet fly out from under him. He lands on his back with a loud slap. The place goes still before the kids start running and screaming. Sam is on his back, motionless, his mouth open. Stella puts her hands over her face.

We push our way through to Sam. He looks up at us, takes a long breath and stops. Stella kneels down. Sam, don't do that, she says. He smirks, folding his hands on his chest. The kids stand quietly. Sam! Stella commands. Breathe! His mouth starts to quiver. His eyes are bulging. Stella throws out her arms, looking around. Please, she cries! Please, is there anyone?

A guy carrying a tray piled with food stops. He has a graybeard, a pink bow of a mouth. He slips off one of his sandals and, with a disdainful expression, pokes his toe into Sam's crotch. Sam sits up, exhaling like a balloon. The kids sigh and turn away. Sam starts making that sound I heard in the water.

I walk outside. Enough, I think. A sailboat is pasted like a butterfly against the horizon. Two gulls stand respectfully, waiting for handouts. I have a bad feeling, that gray, Sunday afternoon feeling. But I don't want to deal with it and hurry off to my car.

John Lowry’s work has appeared in the Chiron Review, the North American Review, and Descant. He lives in New York.