The Small Table

Nate called at eight fifteen on Tuesday, when my hair was still wet from the lesson.

“How much lake?” he asked.

“Less. I may have developed a technique.”

“That’s going to affect the water level.”

I sat on my kitchen floor because I had been standing there when the phone rang and suddenly wanted to stop moving.

“I swam a whole length without standing up.”

“June.”

The pleasure in his voice made me close my eyes.

“It’s a short length.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Make it smaller before I can be glad.”

I leaned my head against the cupboard.

“All right. I swam a whole length.”

“I’m glad.”

We talked for twenty minutes. He told me a repair had gone well. I asked about it, and he explained enough that I could understand why it pleased him without turning the call into an invoice. Then he said he was looking…