The Weight of Our Expectation

Private Lessons (part 1)

(edited 26 SEP 2024)

As Deniz pulled up in his truck, the afternoon sun was just slanting enough to cast an appreciable shadow, the trees glowing in vibrant shades of greens, dark and light. On the porch, Max rocked to and fro, a mix of anticipation and nerves thrumming through him.

Deniz's truck was a rusty old Ford F-150, a testament to his love for vintage vehicles. The paint was chipped, the chrome was faded, and the tires were worn down, so it was clearly a truck that had seen better days. This was no pumpkin carriage, though it seemed likely Deniz treated it like one.

As it pulled up, the radio was blasting classic rock — something old and noisy — which was a far cry from Max's usual playlist of classical music and ambient sounds. He braced himself, hoping the music wouldn't be too loud on the drive to the Y.

Hopping out of the truck, Deniz shot Max a grin, sending a jolt of energy through his heart. It was a warm, inviting smile, a stark contrast to his father's gruff greetings. Max found himself captivated by Deniz's easy confidence, by those gentle, kind eyes.

They waved at each other. "Ready for a swim, Max?"

"Yeah, I think so," Max said, his voice a bit shaky. His heart stuttered as he climbed up into the cab of the truck. I'm actually doing this, he thought. He twisted his hands in his lap, trying to keep them from fidgeting.

As soon as the engine crankily agreed to come back to life, so too did the blast of rock music. Max inwardly cringed, and outwardly yelped.

"Oops, sorry, man. I forgot. I'll do better. Promise."

Max wasn't sure what was meant by "I forgot," but he was grateful for the "I'll do better" part.

As they drove, Max's thoughts were uncontrolled. Constructive thoughts were impossible. Deniz's presence was too captivating. He chose to study the how calmly he drove, with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the clutch. Max's gaze lingered on Deniz's upper arm, the way his muscles flexed as he shifted gears. Especially in profile, Deniz gave the impression that he was aware of Max, but not in an overbearing way.

Max let out a breath and decided he could enjoy the ride, even if that awful music returned.

They reached the YMCA, and Deniz parked the truck. They walked toward the entrance, Deniz speaking in a low, measured voice, explaining what to expect today. Max hung on to every word, trying to ignore the flutter in his stomach whenever Deniz turned his way. As they approached the dreaded locker room, his palms turned clammy, an effect of anxiety he was so familiar with.

The locker room — still reeking of excessive chlorine and his father's words — was waiting like a trap. The air hung thick and humid, a potent cocktail of chemicals, soap, and musty towels clinging to his nostrils. He took a shallow breath through his mouth, desperate for a pocket of fresh air.

But that wasn't the worst — the inevitable loomed. Changing into his swimsuit with Deniz watching? The day was about to get rough.

He tried to ignore all the slick and slippery surfaces, the tiny puddles and their bacterial counts.

Deniz, sensing the anxiety, headed straight to a locker in the farthest row. He tapped the metal door with a padlock already on it and said, "This one's yours now, Max. I got the office to permanently assign it to you." He handed over a slip of paper with a neatly written set of numbers on it. "Here you go."

Max looked at the paper, realizing instantly that it was a combination. He ran a finger along the numbers, feeling a strange mixture of excitement and confusion. Then he looked again at the padlock. His face showed his confusion.