Alex’s breasts hurt. They always hurt when her newborn, Burt, didn’t drink enough. Even as she swam with a controlled, splashless front crawl, each time she pulled herself forward, her breast on that side complained and demanded relief. Alex could get out of the water and express to relieve the pressure, but the swim felt good for the first time since childbirth. Her swim speed had returned. And with only ten more minutes till the lane swim ended, she wanted to finish. Alex could then rush home to take over babysitting duties and express the milk, or if Burt woke, have him eat.

Slow swimmers crowded the lanes today, and Alex had to spend the past five minutes passing breaststroke swimmer after breaststroke swimmer. She approached another breaststroker, a mother, someone whom she knew well enough to nod at the walls, but not by name. The woman’s foot flailed out and kicked Alex’s right breast.

“Fucking Christ!” Alex screamed, half in the water and half out. Fire traveled up her chest, through her neck, and into the back of her head. She really did see stars, red stars, as she floated at the surface.

The lifeguard stood from her chair and scrutinized the water for the scream. Red-faced, Alex submerged and kicked to the wall. Her breast throbbed. Her mouth tasted bitter, gross, and the smell of sulfur replaced the typical chlorine smell.

“Are you ok?” the lady asked. Stupid woman. Why did she swim in the fast lane? She wore a frumpy swimsuit with a skirt, a skirt, and a cloth bathing cap, as if that would protect her hair, and those stupid half scuba mask goggles.

Was she? Her breast hurt from the kick and the pressure, but did the lady mean that or something else? The lady had a slight frown, and her mirrored swim mask hid her eyes. Alex held onto the edge in the deep end. The water gurgled in the drain, a blue kickboard beside her hand, the lady next to her, while Alex’s goggle had fogged up and caused the lights to blur. Alex didn’t know why, but she shook my head. No. She did not feel ok. Not ok. Far from ok. Burt never ate both breasts, so one always hurt. Her husband didn’t understand that she couldn’t do housework while she watched him, and he complained about a messy kitchen every day after work. We had a fight about money and the cost of a babysitter so she could swim, get exercise, which the doctor said she needed. So not ok.

Tears filled her goggles, and she struggled out of the pool. Water dripped as she walked to the universal changeroom, and waddled into the first stall before a twenty-something with perfect makeup, and perfect hair, and bright eyes could steal it, sat down, and held her head. Kids banged doors. Babies cried, and the guilt rose and caused her heart to flutter, about Burt, at home, with the neighbourhood grandmother, while she sat on this bench, sore, tired, and with dread of a return to the messy house.

What made her think she could have a kid, stay fit, still work, and manage a household?

Someone knocked on the outside door. “Occupied.”. Stupid assholes at the pool. Either a guy who saw her enter and wanted a quickie, which she sometimes contemplated, imagined, dreamed, just to feel something, love, lust, anything, not like an egg her husband treated her like, or a cow that Burt screamed for. Or a woman, too occupied with her own life to notice the locked door, or a little brat who knocked on all the doors. I loved Burt, but it also felt impossible to stay ahead.

They knocked again. “Busy!” The stall had a faint urine smell, like the diapers and most rooms of her house. Water pooled around the rusted drain, a hair tie, and a bandaid on the floor. The door blocked most of the changeroom light and left most of the stall in shadows. The mirror on the door reflected my messy, water-soaked hair, my dark bags and goggle marks under my eyes, my oversized, engorged breasts, and my baby belly. My old navy blue swimsuit didn’t fit as my hips flared out, and my breasts spilled out the top and sides. Asshole husband claimed we didn’t have the money for a new suit.