The morning swimmers and then one too many

The water was grey at seven. I counted them from the bench where the railing meets the stone steps.

I’d been in Vila Nova de Milfontes long enough to have a bench. Not a favourite bench. Just the one I sat on because it faced the water.

For eleven mornings, the same four. A woman in a red cap who went in first. Two men who arrived together but swam apart. And someone older who walked in slowly and stayed near the wall.

I wrote the number in the leather notebook each day. Four, four, four. Eleven lines of one digit. None of them knew I was counting.

On the twelfth morning there were five. A younger man, no wetsuit, who stood at the edge for a long time before jumping in. The others carried on as if nothing had changed.

I didn’t like it. I wrote five in the notebook and felt annoyed with myself for caring. I’d noticed the same thing with a dog outside the bakery here, the way it sat in the same spot each morning until I expected it.

The fifth swimmer was probably fine. I sat there trying to work out what bothered me and couldn’t. Maybe I just wanted four.

I’ll be here a while longer.