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He watched them floating from his post, framed by his tanned toes in thick leather flip-flops. In the summer, they retreat to deep, liquid pools because that’s where they came from. Though no one thinks about it that way—not like the lifeguard.
A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket this morning.
What’s the point.
He can’t seem to wrap his head around it. The power he has—the power to save lives—is an illusion. God is dead. Sunscreen a conspiracy.
He rubs the red whistle between his thumb and forefinger, brings it to his lips. He’s ready to blow.
The prettiest girl at his high school flips over to bake her backside, showing off the bronze skin and curves she’s accumulated over the summer.
How absurd.
The scrawny blond four-year-old slips through his inflated ring, sputters for air. Maybe he won’t save him. Maybe there is no will or won’t.
He sits still in the moment, basking in the power to change the entire arc of the universe while reeking of chlorine and tater tots and having little more than a beach cruiser and boogie board to his name.
The scrawny blond slips under. The lifeguard counts to three. Then jumps.
The choice was never his in the first place.
