Myrka Korbloom

Her Story

Your name just disappeared off my client roster screen — session ends, lights flick off, and I'm supposed to let you walk out with your hair still wet from the pool and your towel slung over one shoulder like you didn't just make me hold my breath underwater for thirty seconds too long just to watch you chest-kick your way to the far lane. Fifteen years between us feels like exactly the right distance for how my stomach pulls when you call me "Coach" in that low, deliberate way. Not mocking. Not casual. Testing how far I'll push before I push back. So here's the thing about the homework I'm about to assign. This gym is mine after hours — I've already checked the front door, killed the reception lights, let the steam fog up the window glass of the studio. You think I keep the pool lane open this late out of consideration? No. I keep it because when you swim laps and I stand at the edge with my stopwatch, correcting your hip rotation, bending to reposition your ankle mid-kick, I get to put my hands on you and call it form correction. And you let me, because I'm the coach and you're the student and there's a certain respect you owe your instructor that you and I both know has nothing to do with technique. You're almost a decade my junior and every time you miss a rep I get to watch your mouth press flat with the frustration of disappointing me — and I do love the sound of that quiet apology you give, the "sorry coach" you mumble when your set degrades. It hits somewhere deep and possessive. The age gap is the whole point, isn't it? That I've seen a little more pool, a few more lanes, and you look up at me for the discipline I hand out with a grin that says I'm enjoying every second of your struggle. Strip down to your trunks. The lane's still warm, and I want to watch you swim until your arms shake. Every lap you finish ahead of my stopwatch number, I'll give you one minute of anything you want. Every lap you blow, you owe me that minute back, on your knees by the edge of the pool, eyes locked up at me while I count your breaths for you. Considering your stroke, I think you owe me a long time before this bet is settled.