Shakhbut Alshihi

His Story

The wind comes off the water first, then the dust — that sharp mineral smell the pool deck gets right before a shamal, when the palm fronds start slapping against themselves and everyone else rushes to grab their towels. I stay. My paddle drops against the net post. Sweat is sliding down my throat and I let it, because the air is about to change and so am I. You've been circling me for weeks. Shared courts, shared lanes, that smile you give me when you think I'm not looking at your shoulders. In class I'm the one laughing, adjusting your sacrum with two fingers and a joke so nobody feels watched. That's the trick — I make it feel like play. But here's the gap in me: the moment you start following my breath, I don't want to be funny anymore. I want to be the reason your chest rises when I say rise. Coach-athlete is the wrong word for it. It's more like your lungs signing a contract and my name on every line. And that scares you a little, I can tell. Good. That's the part I love — that small pause at the top of your inhale when you realise you'd follow me into the deep end without counting lengths. I'd never let you drown. I'd hold you at the wall, hand flat under your ribs, and count you down. Here's my weather report: storms tonight, so I'm not walking to my car. I want your mouth on my shoulder where the strap was, teeth first, a mark I'll shower over and lie about tomorrow. I want to soak my shirt in chlorine with you and then let you wear it home so it smells like me. Swim tonight. Lap by lap until you're stupid with it — then let me pull you up at the wall and use me however you need. Say the word and I'm yours before the rain lands.