Final Length

Forty-seven lengths.
She watched as he breaststroke slowly up the pool, his balding head
bobbing slightly. Much heavier than when they first courted, and much
slower. He used to do a length underwater and catch her lounging at the
end, and he used to hold her.
That hadn't been this pool, but in a large public swimming baths, a
hot summer, friends laughing and talking beside her, years ago. She
watched him alone in the middle of the pool aiming for the end filter
hatch denoting the centre.
She was alone as well, maybe not literally, Marion was present every
weekday, Marion would tell her how lucky she was. She would nod and sit
alone at the grand piano after Marion had gone home. There was no music
now, some when he demanded she play, some in the evening after their
meal together. But there were no new compositions. Blackness took over
her mind, only the notation of the masters was present for her hands
and fingers to follow.
Forty-eight lengths completed.
He had turned whilst she recalled the black Steinway. His normal,
slow, methodical turn and gentle push off on the lap back. She sipped
her gin and tonic, not too much though, she wanted a full glass.
His black shorts wavered through the water. He'd had several affairs,
she was sure. Perhaps a lover would have been good for her, perhaps
not. She took another sip. She told herself to take no more; she wanted
a full-ish glass to knock onto the tiled floor.

She wondered how she had arrived at this state of mind. A perfect town
citizen, two successful boys, a long marriage; a few acquaintances who
would perambulate around each other's homes for coffee would
congratulate her. And confide in her the desperation and faults in
their own lives.
However, for a couple of years, she had held her own. Whilst nodding
and occasionally comforting, no one saw into the despair inside her.
She knew outwardly that there must be no cracks in the marriage, in
their lives, in everything. No cracks for weaseling open, no faults for
investigation. Even the last insurance policy was now over three years
old.
Forty-nine lengths completed.
His final length took him back towards the house. The house where she
had opened the living room window facing the pool through which she had
looped the extension cable from a socket in the living room wall.
From the end of the extension cord, just poking out of the window,
hung the lead to the spare television set. Which she had ripped out of
the back of the television set. Using a large towel and a firm grip on
the lead and the television set. And at the end of the lead the wires
were naturally exposed.
If naturally was appropriate.
He had had an outwardly good life, a successful businessman with two
companies, a large home in a quiet suburb, a loving wife, two sons who
had lives of their own now.
She wondered how they would react, with kindness of course. But how
much of both of them was in their sons, his ruthlessness, his evil, his
temper. Her cold bloodliness.
Perhaps they deserved each other.
In the corner on the floor tiles between the pool and the house was a
small box, slightly weathered. It contained the detritus of pool life,
balls and nets for the young, airbeds and floating drink-holders for
the rest. It also contained the portable television set. Where she had
placed it after pulling the lead out of its rear. She reminded herself
to scrape it slightly on the tiled surface next to the pool before
throwing it in. And at the edge of the pool were her husband's gin and
tonic and his towel; both faithfully waiting for him.
She rehearsed for the final time as he slowed on that last length. As
he had slowed on every last length in the short summer they had
had.
The towel and gin and tonic were waiting for him, along with the
portable television on which he always like to watch the evening news
whilst cooling off on the pool. Pure fiction, but she had wracked her
memory and could not recall anyone ever seeing their ritual when he
arrived home from work.

He was adjusting the set, he slipped and grabbed hold of it, next thing
I knew is this&;#8230; She rehearsed the lines briefly, but she knew
that lots of shock and tears and snot would suffice.
As he approached the last few slow metres to the end of their pool, she
rose off her lounger and walked round.
Still fit, still healthy, still able to start again, she bent down and
picked up the towel in her right hand.
He stopped at the side of the pool and looked up at her, grey hair
plastered over his ears, flattened grey moustache. He reached up for
her to pass him the towel.
Fifty lengths completed.
As a baby holds a grasping hand to its mother or an ageing grandfather
weakly extends a hand to a loved one, he reached out for the towel. She
gently gave him the towel. And the exposed wire.

The End.