I decided to take the laptop down to the deck by the pool, hoping for a cool breeze. The air is still, so I seal the laptop in plastic and sit at the bottom of the deep end, writing with the cool pressure of water sitting on top of me.
My fingers feel sluggish, pushing against liquid. The display shimmers and glows, a pinprick of light that barely makes it to the surface; the only signifier that someone is below, holding his breath as he writes.
Freedivers have to resurface in stages; holding a pattern just before coming up to take a breath so the body can adjust. I, too, am moving in stages, testing the waters that I haven't navigated in awhile, trying to keep the ratios correct, trying not to dive too deep or surface too quickly.
Sentences are made of words. Words are made of letters. Letters are made of pixels, wobbling below the surface as my typing hands stir the water.
I hold my breath, waiting.
A message may appear, or it may not. I send my own message out, saying it aloud, knowing by the time the words reach the surface they'll be nothing but air bubbles to pop, then settle in the still evening air.
I haven't sat patiently down here in a long time, but I've held my breath before. Sometimes it's merely a measure of my own will. Sometimes a splash from above, muffled by eight feet of water, will announce that someone has jumped into the pool. He may float on the waves he created above, paying me no mind, or he may settle to the bottom, where the filter makes the only sound.
We'll sit Indian-style at the bottom. The pixels will melt off the screen and travel to the surface, where they'll re-form into letters, words, sentences to mar the glassy skin at the top of the pool.
They'll glow faintly, able to be read from above, but only understood from below.
I've held my breath before. I'm good at it. It's pleasant enough while I listen carefully for a splash, the strokes of a swimmer, or even the tiny disturbance of someone testing the water with a single toe.
I've held my breath before. I'm good at it.
