Page 17 of The Artist's Rival

“I guess it depends on your mood,” Marcel concludes. “Bathtubs are definitely little wombs.”

“Yes,” Tatiana nods as they enter.

The strong smell of chlorine hits their noses as soon as they shut the door. Tatiana is overcome by a wave of nostalgia, looking at the kids running around the corridor, half in swimsuits, half-clothed, shouting carelessly to each other. There is such a distinct atmosphere in these spaces that she feels a strong urge to translate it into painting, regretting leaving her sketchbook behind.

“Marcel,” she turns to her friend, “do you have your phone on you?”

“Always,” he smiles, taking out his phone. “Why?”

“I’d like for you to take some pictures to capture the swimming pool vibe.” She gestures towards the floor tiles, the half-empty vending machines, flip flops on the floor. “I think I want to paint it.”

“That’s hardly a landscape,” he says with a smile, “but the pictures would be really nice. You got it.” He tells her, snapping a few pics before turning to go inside the men’s changing room.

Tatiana follows suit and enters the women’s locker room, considering how everything makes her feel. The shared nudity of changing rooms has fascinated her ever since entering it for the first time. Truth be told, it was her first opportunity to study anatomy as a girl, her stares sometimes verging on rude. Her mother had to unglue her eyes from various breasts and legs, young and old, a sea of diverse hair tucked into swimming caps. The swimming pool escapades drove her towards painting women, on the way discovering her budding sexuality. Eventually, she abandoned the subject, but her deep appreciation for the female body stayed with her. Now, knowing better than to treat the swimmers as her anatomy subjects, she admires the simple utilitarianism of the changing room space; bright yellow lockers keep her keys contained in their metallic stomachs, now and then clinking in response to some accidental elbow or knee strike. Girls in swimsuits of various shades of pink run around, impatient for their mothers to emerge out of the room. Tatiana finishes changing and heads towards the showers, always dysregulated, spitting out either steaming water straight from the pits of Hell or ice cold, marking her entire skin with goosebumps. One time she overheard some teenagers joke, “It’s just like my ex!” pointing at the shower, and Tatiana hasn’t been able to forget that line ever since.

Feeling her thoughts thoroughly granulated by the moody stream, she steps out into the swimming area. Having forgotten to take her flip flops, her toenails curl not to slip on the watered floor. She waves to the already-swimming Marcel, but he fails to see, prompting her to simply enter the pool. She used to properly warm up before swimming, but now has no more patience to do that, craving to simply flow amidst the refreshing water, alongside the other swimmers. Solitary, but still having others within reach, she feels free.

They swim until the late-night hour empties the hall, and impatient staff have to remind them that the pool closes in fifteen minutes.

Tatiana comes out of the water, shivering, at peace. Marcel gets their towels hanging from the wall, and they head towards their respective changing rooms.

“See you in the lobby.” He waves to Tatiana, and she nods in response.

Changing back into her clothes has always been the worst part of swimming, she ruefully remembers. The still-wet limbs infect her clothes with water in a particularly unpleasant manner, making each sleeve sticky and stubbornly difficult to put on. The room is now completely empty, putting her in an uneasy mood. The space feels like something liminal, an Edward Hopper scene with a solitary woman, sitting in front of a row of yellow metal lockers, drying her hair with an already wet towel. Wanting to quickly escape this unsettling solitude, she hurriedly packs everything into her bag and leaves to reunite with Marcel.

She finds him chatting with the receptionist, probably to mitigate the annoyance they caused by staying until the last minute. Fortunately, Marcel is a naturally charming man, so they manage to avoid any unpleasantness.

Once out of the building, neither of them wants to go home.

“The night feels so fresh,” Marcel sighs into the peaceful air of the quiet neighborhood.

Tatiana’s stomach rumbles unforgivingly, causing them both to laugh.

“I’m starving,” she exclaims, feeling the hunger permeating her muscles.

“Let’s get hot dogs,” Marcel suggests. “Remember the hot dog truck, not so far from here? I bet it’s still there.”

And they go, feeling like two silly adolescents hunting for food trucks. Tatiana feels the air fill her lungs to the brim with life, her tired muscles ache, reminding her that her body is in its prime, lively, present. She hasn’t felt so at peace with herself for a long while.

“Hey, Marcel,” she says.

“Hm?” he responds, seemingly going through a similar state of bliss.

“I have girl problems.” Tatiana grins, ready to be open about her troubles.

“No way,” Marcel laughs, though he can sense that she is serious. “More like woman problems now, I guess.”

“More like woman problems,” she sighs.

They get to the truck, indeed still serving the same hot dogs they used to get two years ago. The rich smell of meat and ketchup sends their stomachs rumbling insanely. Tatiana gets her usual, with pickles and mustard, and they sit on the curb, simply eating and enjoying having each other around. When Marcel swallows his last bite, he wipes his hands and clears his throat, ready to give his best advice.

“So, who’s the woman?” he asks.

“I’m afraid you know her,” Tatiana admits. “It’s the painter, Ellie Matthews.”

Even saying the name out loud sends shivers down her spine, her unruly thoughts sent spiraling back towards the infamous bathroom stall.

“Oh.” Marcel thinks it over. “But it makes sense, no? You even paint similar things. And she’s hot. Like ethereal goddess hot.”

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