Blue Holes

L sat at the edge of the pool, torso exposed to the sun. When I noticed, I returned a smile. L got up, sauntered over. Asked if he could borrow the lotion. We shook hands. Then asked if I would rub down his back. Sure, I said, turn over.    

*

Late afternoon. We lit a cigarette between us. L began telling me about something he had been reading. Blue holes. Deep water-filled depressions in the earth’s surface. Submarine caves, some are called, if they occur on the ocean floor. Many harbor a complex system of tunnels in their bowels. Some run so deep that no light penetrates; the water eviscerated of oxygen by the pressure, turning them into ideal environs of preservation. Whole skeletons have been unearthed, the bones polished by time and timelessness. A danger: there, the water, though clear, fills easily with silt when stirred, so that one has to grapple insistently with the possibility of entrapment by an impenetrable shroud of blackness; a torch is no guarantee. Explorers have lost their lives in those caves, where they remained. The cigarette burnt out. We lit another. Rather exciting, don’t you think, L said, the sun on his skin sprawled like a tryst.