Twenty-eight lengths

I swim in the slow lane
with a girl wearing a two-piece
and waterproof mascara.
We breaststroke clockwise.

During my seventh length,
she strokes my forearm
as she goes by.

At fifteen lengths
my hand brushes her calf.
She has shaved well.

Underwater she looks magnified
with sharp hips
you could handstand on.

At twenty-seven lengths
she frog kicks me
in the thigh with
a painted toenail.

We both keep on swimming.

I stop at the shallow
end - there is a wisp
of blood seeping
from my leg.

The locker keys are attached
to a band that you wear
in place of your watch.
I use the key to worry at
the nick on my thigh.

Eventually it bleeds
like a put-out candle.
We swim and swim
and don't feel tired.