Duncan and I have squared off at either end of the pool, and we're trading lines from Bruce Springsteen songs from his Greatest Hits album. Duncan's playing cool. He's been so far under the radar this summer I think he's gone into hiding and I'm determined to bring him out. He'll step in to assist in emergencies but when I'm in a perpetual bad mood or, as he calls it, a whine-machine, he tends to check out.
This is why he's single. Because his looks are definitely not a problem. Actually they can be a problem and from here, I can tell his swim shorts are slung too low to look anywhere else and gosh, I hope the water drags them right off him halfway through Thunder Road and then my teenage dreams for the day will drown in thrills along with his incredible lack of modesty ever.
Also, he might be single because he lit a cigarette once in the pool and the outcry was stunning and in that moment we realized how self-absorbed he can be. Hahahaha. He is wearing patches now, soaked with chlorine and trying his very best to quit. He doesn't think that's cool and doesn't know what to do with his hands if he isn't smoking or tucking a cigarette behind his ear like an Outsider.
Steal Bridget's licorice? Dalton says helpfully.
Hush, you. I admonish him. That's MY licorice. Also, Poet, that's whining.
Yeah but it's me so I don't mind it.
Wow. My eyes are big. What a jerk. A super-hot adorable jerk.
I duck back into the pool, keeping my arms out, inching along the side, til I can get back around to the shallower end where the steps are. Time for me to get out. My arms hurt. I don't want to hold the one heavy broken one out of the water but I don't want to get it wet anymore either since it never seems to dry and I'm honestly interested to see what's next after Springsteen season ends.
Buckingham Nicks, he says.
Oh, score. I don't have to think for the words, then. I can trade off lines in my sleep.