Confessions of a Human Nerve Ending

There's a ghost in the natatorium. I see him when I'm coasting before I tap the wall and then turn around. I never mastered the kick-turn and see no reason to start now as the ghost keeps pace. In the blue light of my swimming goggles, I imagine that it uses its legs a bit more and swings its waist, so that its left arm doesn't overstretch for its counterstroke. Surely the ghost doesn't take a breath with every stroke, and never loses count of how many laps its done. Yet, it never passes me, never seems anything but fixed. I mark and think in this monotony, this simple increased heart rate,  moving muscles plunge. Does it too have a roving, yet discrete lecherous eye and tries to check out every woman:   college freshmen to veteran faculty who stop and catch their breath before getting out? No.  I like to think that the ghost is focused, putting all its will into shedding pounds, toning upper body muscles, and now...