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The man ducks underwater and pushes away from the side as he approaches. The man is big, bald headed and with a black beard and moustache that makes him look like an American biker, the hair on his back streams in a way reminiscent of tentacles and then flares up as he slows, each hair rising individually like fur. It is momentarily, and strangely, beautiful.

He reaches the end himself, letting only the fingertips of one hand touch, swinging himself round, ducking down and pushing away, holding his body straight, toes pointed, back arched, gliding through the water, not pulling the one stroke racing rules allow but letting himself slow and rise to the surface before pushing himself up with his hands, taking a breath, and swimming.

It is all in the rhythm and the interface. The movement between air and water, the regimented breathing, each breath taken quickly then let out slowly in heavy bubbles that rush and buffet his ears. Above the interface is light and noise, fragments of conversations too short to make out, splashing, beneath the interface is calm and clarity, everything crystal behind the goggles, tiny bubbles kicked up by the preceding swimmer sparkle beguilingly, bodies look sleek and fast, Christmas pudding swollen tummies look streamlined, bikers look beautiful.

He swims breast stroke for half an hour, not pausing except when he has to, letting it exhaust him. He glances at the clock on the wall that only reads seconds, a length takes twenty five seconds, two lengths average out at about a minute, in thirty minutes he will have swum a kilometre and a half. Others splash about with front crawl, breaststroke with their heads held permanently up, backstroke on occasion. Some of them are stronger than him but none have his technique, he'd wager his breaststroke against their crawl. He is well taught, he slides through the water elegantly, with grace and economy of movement, it strikes him that economy is not his friend where he seeks exercise, but when you do a thing you should do it as well as you can.

He is here for exercise, and as a distraction, in the rhythm and the interface he can think clearly, without emotion.

It is his lack of imagination that he curses, he can see a future with her, a future alone, but nothing in between. It was his imagination that was the problem, it pictured a life together too vividly, it read meaning into every word and gesture, it saw something that was not there and made him false promises. He knows he will get over this, but for now the bleakness of his situation, the lack of purpose in his life, the blank utility of friendships, are all too stark, and the only thing that helps is to lose himself in activity.

When the lanes clear a little he swims front crawl, fast, sprinting, five strokes to each breath. He can only keep it up for a couple of lengths before needing a break, but for those two lengths he is like a torpedo, back arched, arms lifted high and daggering down into the water and pulling backwards in a straight line down the centre of his body, legs kicking small fast kicks loose at the ankles, powering forward, the pool floor passing beneath like flying. He leans against the side and pants, breathing hard, watching the other swimmers, before a few more lengths, three strokes between breaths, and then home, too exhausted to think.