They waited for a lesson to end by the pool before starting their own. Like stepping off a subway, they exited before they entered, passing dozens of men in swim trunks and many women in fitted caps. Look at them—almost synchronized swimmers, though not in peak form, a bit imperfect and human in every sense. The visual rhythm of the scene feels like a parade, a military march translated into motion by the water. And yet there is balance: sometimes the shorter bodies align with taller ones, forming a straight line along the horizon. They can afford sequined caps; others wear simple Lycra hats in subdued colors that blend with their swimsuits. On the sand, nautical stripes, floral prints, and even yellow polka dots share space with lizard-pattern sarongs. The color palette runs from black to gray or deep blue, rarely anything loud, almost never anything that shouts.
A woman waiting during rush hour near the pool’s entry described how someone had tried to claim a spot, only to find it already taken. “September is here,” a veteran replied. September feels like January here, a month that serves some purpose and then slips away. The word ‘aims’ sounds strange to her, not like ‘objective’ or ‘determination,’ and the Royal Academy could bring this voice along to stand in for words like ‘bloated,’ ‘singer mornings,’ or leftovers that linger. It’s as if someone is approaching with a compliment, and the response is a quick, uneasy retreat.
As the narrator slides the left foot into the pool, the realization hits: tone matters. The way a word lands depends heavily on how it’s spoken. Indeed, September and January feel the weakest, the months when quitting is supposedly easiest for those who want to stop smoking. The advice rings clear—throw away the cigarette pack now. If someone really wants to learn English, they should immerse themselves in Downton Abbey in its original English. And, just in case, the narrator wouldn’t trust the good-looking person who vows marriage in September.
The narrator had signed up for the pool in June, unknowingly forward-thinking. It began with a few laps, then escalated into a full commitment: water gymnastics, water Pilates, water pump—anything that involved water. A recent scene found the narrator looking awkward on a terrace, the kind of moment where a friend teased with, “Really, the swimming pool? Ugh, that many people focused on their bodies—how lazy.” Yet the pool represented something different from the gym, which felt like a showcase for sculpted physiques and polished appearances, shared endlessly on social feeds. September, however, brings people who come “on purpose,” and the decathlon tracksuits are a distant memory in the rush of new crowds.
Before long, the narrator observed others returning, some times not even paying for their sessions. The next goal hinted at is the New Year. Not everyone is a gym bore; years of attendance reveal plenty of good souls, but the pool stands out as a separate culture. A hat becomes a sieve, the fibers flatten and stretch as the water works its effect. It’s not about eyelashes or nails; in the water, women with stickers turn wilder, and that wildness is celebrated. In these classes, there are people with medical prescriptions, part of healing or palliation for serious illnesses. They are the youngest in the room, while the predecessors and seniors lean on canes by the banister, their bodies softened and soaked in the damp air. It’s a small, living community, with smiles that stay on the faces of those who keep showing up.
Stepping into the pool with the right foot, a feeling of envy arises—an ache to be like them when their age comes. Water has a way of making flexibility and desire visible, and after enough time, one might admit there are two kinds of people in the world: those who live all year and those who live in September, choosing different seasons of life but chasing similar goals.