Rural Irish town, evening. Tim drops into the chipper to check his hours,although he knows his hours,than walks past the big catholic church his mam doesn’t make him go to anymore,past the petrol station – the glare of red lights with numbers of prices he reads though he doesn’t drive – to the river,where he slows down a fraction to listen to its gurgling. He can already smell the chlorine nearby.His big white shoulders soften.

he loves the pool like he loved acting school. Something to do with the space, being there and somewhere else at the same time.

Shrubs. Car park. Swinging doors. He holds it open for a tall woman he doesn’t recognize, who says thank you very much. The yawning receptionist says hi Tim and he says Well.

It is 8pm, Friday.The adult swim at the local leisure center. Tim doesn’t go drinking at the trad on the Thursday evenings. He doesn’t go to the gym. In the pool he doesn’t do a length, or leave the lads. he likes to float and sometimes does little kicks against the end.

Changing rooms. One friend already in his trunks and flip-flops leaning against a locker. The other with a two-day stubble is shoving things into a locker and asking if either of them have a euro for it.

Tim gives him his only euro, takes off his nylon tight branded top, strips down to his briefs. Leaves his locker shut but unlocked. Here you don’t have trouble with the lads stealing stuff, it’s if you accused them you would.

they walk together, past the sign that says No video, photography. Sean, who was recently laid off with his da when the ribbon factory closed, was the reason. Slipped his phone’s camera underneath the cubicle a few years ago, pretending he just dropped it.That it was recording by accident. he made such a deal of it, nearly like it happened to him, that he just got barred for the year.

Tim says Ready and they walk by the opening to the showers and the Swimming costumes must be kept on at all times sign. He would never take his off but he’d still prefer the sign wasn’t there. His briefs cut into his hips and make two thin lines to his groin. When he passes the sign that says Lifeguard, their lives are in your hands, he wonders why this isn’t in a private staff area like the ones they have in the chipper. Then thinks the sign is for the people to see that the lifeguard can see.

The pool is 20 metres. At the end, is the jacuzzi. Either side, the sauna and steam room. Not dissimilar to the layout of the church or a cross.The three of them walk in a line – the flip-flop friend walks practically in on the pool, though Tim knows he’d never fall in.

they go backwards down the metal bar one after another.The two lads grimace though it’s lukewarm. Though there’s no-one watching. No-one and everyone. Tim smiles to himself, thinks it’s like a play or God or town or something. He counts seventeen men in the area, one woman and one couple. The couple are throwing a ball around half way down the pool, stretching and wading and swimming after it. There’s a nodding exchange between the three lads.

A Quiet Afternoon by the water

The three men stood near the outdoor swimming pool, a muted scene unfolding before them. It wasn’t a particularly warm day, but the pool was open. A woman swam laps, her movements intentional and steady. they weren’t really watching her, more observing her as a focal point in a shared silence.

“Treat him the same as customers, even a bit better,” Sean offered, the comment hanging in the air without clear context. It felt like a fragment of a larger conversation, a stray thought voiced aloud.

“Is the film festival back up and running afterwards?” Sean asked. tim knew the answer,but let the question linger. He considered asking his companions what they thought, but decided against it.

“Yeah,it was on in February,” Tim replied.

“How’s that?”

Tim had volunteered at the festival.He’d grown frustrated with the seriousness of the filmmakers,their focus on the minutiae of small-town life. They enjoyed perks – expensive hotels, coffee and scone vouchers – while the volunteers received nothing. When he’d asked a manager if he could share some of the leftover vouchers, he was denied. He quit on the spot, walking out of the theater, but the filmmakers hadn’t even noticed.they were to preoccupied with whether the films were “epic” or “slow” enough, Tim thought, and he couldn’t even remember who he was angry with anymore.

“Ah, all up themselves,” he said, dismissing the memory with a wave of his hand.

“Good for the town though,” one of the men offered.

Tim grunted in agreement, glancing at a sign warning against putting water on the coals, then at a thermometer reading a surprisingly high temperature.

Silence descended again, broken only by the rhythmic splashing of the swimmer.

“Some swimmer, isn’t she?” one of them remarked, nodding towards the woman in the pool.

“Some filly, did you say?” Sean quipped.

The two men shared a laugh, a brief moment of camaraderie.

“Tell ya though. Speaking of film stuff, I was out foreign, Lanzarote,” Sean began, launching into a new story. “Me and this man looking over at each other at lunch trying to place one another.”

Tim felt a trickle of water running down his feet, dripping onto the wooden decking.He hadn’t noticed a leak before.

“I was like ‘are you the one from Ireland AM?’ The Mrs has it on the telly in the morning and he said he was. I said ‘I knew it’,” Sean finished, slapping his thigh for emphasis, “and I asked for an autograph for the Mrs and he gave it.”

“Fair play,” someone said, a simple acknowledgment of Sean’s celebrity encounter.