Lane Four

Hazel swims at the town pool every morning at seven. She likes lane four. It is the slow lane. The water is calm, and the pool is almost empty.

She swims slowly. She counts each lap in her head. Her goal is twenty laps. She never goes faster. She never hurries. One Monday, a man jumps into lane four. He swims very fast. His feet kick water into her face. Hazel stops and coughs.

The man stops too. "I am so sorry," he says.

"The fast lanes are full today."

"This is the slow lane," Hazel says.

"I know. I am not slow, but I am not rude. I will try to be careful."

He tries. On the next lap, he passes her and kicks again. Hazel shakes her head. She swims to the wall and holds on. A sign on the wall says, "Swim on the right."

"Sir," she says.

"Please swim on the right."

"I am on the right," he says.

"No. You are in the middle."

The man looks around. He laughs. "You are correct. I am Imran."

"Hazel," she says.

"Twenty laps for me. How many for you?"

"Forty," Imran says.

"But I only count to ten. Then I start again."

On Tuesday, he comes back. He swims on the right this time. He still kicks water, but only a little. Hazel does not mind. At the wall, he says, "Good morning, lane four."

On Wednesday, they talk for five minutes between laps. He says he works at a bank. He hates his tie. He loves the pool. Nobody wears a tie in the water. She says she teaches music to small children. Her day is loud, so she wants a quiet morning.

On Thursday, Imran is early. He waits at the wall. "Today I swim slowly," he says. "I want to see how it feels."

He swims very slowly. It looks strange. His arms are too big for the speed. Hazel tries not to laugh. When he finishes, he is tired. "Slow swimming is hard," he says.

"How do you do it?"

"I think about songs," Hazel says.

"One song for each lap."

On Friday, Hazel does not come. She has a cold, so she stays in bed. Imran arrives and looks at the empty lane. He swims forty laps. But he cannot count them. He starts at ten again and again. The lifeguard laughs at him.

On Saturday, Hazel comes back. She has a red nose. Imran is at the wall with a small bottle. "What is that?" she asks.

"Honey and lemon," he says.

"For your cold. I lost count on Friday. I swam all morning. I do not know how many laps I did."

"Maybe fifty," Hazel says. "Maybe a hundred. I was lonely, so it felt like a hundred." Hazel smiles. She drinks a little from the bottle. It is warm and sweet. Then she puts her swimming cap on.

"Today I want to try a fast lap," she says. "Then I will swim a slow one," says Imran.

They stand at the wall. Hazel counts to three. They push off together. Halfway down, they meet in the middle, side by side. Neither of them is fast, and neither is slow. They swim on the right, all the way.