slower, she says, go slower

she sits in a chair beside
you at the pool. do you mind?
is anyone sitting here?
you open your eyes,
half blind from the sun
and say, no. it's fine.
I like the way you swim,
she says, her hair, black
as any raven's, oily and thick,
wrapped now in a coned towel.
she lights a cigarette
and leans back in the yellow
lawn chair, blowing smoke
to the side.
I watch you from my window.
I can see the pool from fifteen
floors up. I see you
dive in. I watch as your arms
and legs spread and pull you
along. you are a wonderful
swimmer. how quickly you move
from side to side. where did
you learn to swim like that?
you lean over. she's your mother's
age, maybe older. you're seventeen.
she's liz taylor from the golden age.
a cluster of rings on her hand.
a necklace dripping against
her browned chest. can you put
some lotion on me, she says,
twisting her cigarette out
into the hot concrete.
would you be a dear. I won't
bite. i'm harmless she says,
dropping her sunglass down
just enough to give you a wink.
my back and legs, she says,
rolling over, pulling the straps
down on her bathing suit.
she hands you the tube of lotion.
you look around the pool to see
if anyone is watching,
then squirt a dollop into
your hand, carefully you
smooth it onto her alligator
skin. slower, she says.
go slower.