Got out of the pool and noticed how warm my shoulders were while the rest of me was freezing. I swim slowly enough that the lifeguard could probably finish a book between turns, but the movement feels good once I stop trying to make every length useful. My right thumb complained when I squeezed the water out of my towel. Same joint, same small nuisance. At home I sat with my wet hair against the chair and nearly fell asleep before supper. My wife asked whether I had worked out hard. Not particularly. Forty minutes in the water seems to take a different sort of effort than forty minutes walking the dog.

My wife brought home a box of things from the school library and looked pleased to be clearing her desk before retirement. I was pleased for her until she asked which cupboard she could have. Apparently I have filled the spare room with equipment I might need. I heard myself defending a wobble board neither of us uses, and we both laughed, though I was still annoyed. Her leaving work feels real when there is a box in the hallway. Mine remains a conversation about three days a week. I would like to be as excited as she is. Mostly I want her to stop asking whether I am excited yet.

I spent part of the dog walk trying to remember who lived in the yellow house before the roof was changed. There was a family with two boys, or one boy and a cousin who stayed summers. I can picture the younger one limping into our old clinic with a purple cast, but that gives me no useful date. My wife remembers the house by the woman who grew enormous tomatoes. We may be talking about different families. I started to look it up when we got home, then wondered what I would even search for. The dog had found something worth investigating under a bench and was probably having a more productive evening.