He’s Just About to Get In and Somehow You’re Still Swimming Alone

So, you have been seeing this man long enough for things to feel decidedly relationship-shaped. It is lovely, you are close, and naturally you have started wondering whether the whole thing might actually become something real. The only tiny complication is that whenever the conversation wanders anywhere near commitment, Sir suddenly needs a little more time. Just a little, of course. Always just a little.

He talks warmly about where this could go. He likes you enormously, can quite see the two of you becoming something proper and seems genuinely fond of the idea. He just needs a little more time first. Naturally. Time, in this relationship, has become the most frequently invited guest.

And he says it with such lovely sincerity that believing him hardly feels reckless. If anything, it feels almost impolite not to.

After a while, though, the whole relationship begins to resemble a beautiful hotel pool where you are already in the water and the man you are waiting for has been standing at the edge for quite some time, assuring you that he is absolutely coming in.

Wonderful.

You swim toward him as he comes closer to the edge, and for a moment the afternoon looks exceptionally promising. Then, with tremendous care, he lowers one foot and dips a single toe into the water.

For perhaps two seconds.

Out comes the toe.

The water is a little cold.

Perfectly reasonable. He will try again in a minute.

One Toe Is Technically Progress

Naturally, you are delighted. He did, after all, touch the water. A man with no intention of swimming would hardly bother getting his toe wet, would he?

So you float around for a while as he sits nearby looking very much like a man on the verge of joining you. He has taken off his sunglasses, moved his towel and appears to be doing things near the steps.

Goodness.

Then both feet go in at once.

Now this is becoming serious.

You swim a little closer because surely the rest of him is about to follow, but he simply sits there with his feet in the water, looking thoughtful.

At this rate, we may have a knee by sunset.

Then he remembers that his phone is lying in the sun, so up he gets and out come the feet. Well, of course. The phone is getting warm, so this promising little burst of progress will simply have to wait.

He moves it into the shade, wanders back toward the pool and tells you again that he really does want to swim with you.

And here is the rather charming complication: he may mean every word. Somewhere in his imagination, the two of you are probably swimming beautifully together one day when everything feels just right.

He is simply having an astonishing amount of trouble becoming wet.

We May Have a Knee by Sunset

A little later, Sir returns to the steps for another promising appearance.

One foot goes down, then the other, and you are practically ready to alert the hotel. Another step follows. The water reaches his ankles.

Goodness. Both ankles. At this rate, one expects a proposal and a ring.

Then he stops.

He ate not long ago.

Ah. Quite right. Nobody wants an aquatic incident over lunch.

He asks for ten minutes, which seems perfectly reasonable. Ten minutes, however, shows very little interest in remaining ten minutes.

Somewhere around minute seventeen of the ten-minute wait, another man swims over, stays to chat and eventually asks whether you might like to have a drink later.

You glance toward the steps.

Your man is standing there again, very close to the water. In fact, he appears to be considering removing his watch.

“No, thank you,” you say, with the serene confidence of a woman whose man is clearly moments away from joining her.

Then you look back.

Sir is applying sunscreen.

Never mind. There has clearly been movement near the steps. By now, you have become something of a mermaid, swimming for what feels like ages while Sir remains perfectly dry on land.

Meanwhile, the rest of the pool has been carrying on with almost insulting ease. One couple has already swum together, climbed out, ordered drinks and disappeared for early dinner. Another is floating lazily at the deep end, apparently unaware that swimming can require this much preparation.

You are still swimming alone, but with tremendous optimism because both of his feet were briefly wet before lunch.

The Man Is Still Almost Swimming

By early evening, our gentleman has become wonderfully skilled at hovering. He sits at the edge, wanders toward the steps, remarks on how inviting the water looks and, at one especially exciting moment, rolls up his shorts.

Naturally, every fresh approach looks more convincing than the last.

Surely now.

He is practically in.

Except that practically in is a curious place to spend an entire summer.

Seen from the other end of the pool, the whole day is becoming quite a sight. You have been swimming for hours while his intentions are measured by inches: toe, feet, ankles, one particularly hopeful moment near the first step.

At some point, the left foot has shown more commitment than the rest of the man.

And this is the maddeningly charming part: Sir may be entirely sincere. In his own mind, he may already be halfway through a glorious swim with you, despite the inconvenient fact that almost all of him remains dry.

By now the evening is beginning to pack up around him. Towels disappear into bags, empty glasses leave the tables, and couples who came for a swim have somehow managed the astonishing feat of getting into the water.

And there he is again at the edge, telling you he is almost ready.

You look over just as one toe enters the water.

Goodness.

We are back to the toe.