Why We Sleep

Mara reached the pool at nine forty-eight, when the last family was gathering towels beside the vending machine. The receptionist looked at the clock, then at Mara’s bag. “Forty minutes,” she said.

“That is enough,” Mara said, though she had not decided what it was enough for.

At home, the evening had been full of small questions. Her brother wanted to know where the spare charger was. Her mother called from the other room to ask whether the soup had salt. A neighbour had knocked to return a bowl and stayed to describe a problem with her boiler. None of it had been urgent, exactly. By the time the flat grew quiet, Mara had put on her swimsuit without telling anyone where she was going.

There were four people in the slow lane. She waited at the wall while an older man adjusted his goggles, then pushed off behind him. The water was colder than she expected. On the second length, she remembered she had forgotten to lock the kitchen window. On the third, she decided it could wait.

After a while, the lane emptied. Mara began counting lengths because the numbers gave her something to do that did not require an answer. At twelve, she lost the count. She tried again from one.

The attendant switched off the music. “Ten minutes,” he called, not looking toward anyone in particular.

Mara swam to the shallow end and stood with water at her waist. She could have done two more lengths. The attendant began coiling the lane rope beside the slow lane.

She went to the changing room. On the bus home, she tried to remember whether she had swum twelve lengths or thirteen, then let the number go when her stop appeared.