A love story: Patrick in the Pool

He frequented the pool every Friday, claiming the middle lane as his own and beginning his routine swim at exactly 12:15. For 45 minutes, he swam non-stop, then he would stand at the edge of the pool, checking the clock to ensure he had kept to his schedule. In the days when I loved him, I waited patiently until he finished his swim, then I would approach him, silent. Words were always hard for me to utter; instead, I yearned to express my affection with a hug or a kiss. But that was impossible.

The first time I saw him, he had just finished swimming and was checking the clock. Seeing me, he extended his hand under the water and, with a smile, said, "Patrick." It was peculiar, this underwater handshake, but it didn't lessen the warmth of his greeting. I responded with my own name, "Moniro." His response was pleasing; "Nice to meet you, Moniro."

Shock washed over me. He had pronounced my name correctly. "What did you say? Can you please say my name again?" I requested. He repeated, "Nice seeing you, Moniro." My name, you see, is not an easy one to pronounce. Even my husband of 20 years struggled with it. His daily question, upon waking, was always the same: "What did you say? What was your name again?"

When we lived in our home country, I attributed his struggles to our regional differences. But even after we immigrated, his struggles and daily questions persisted, right up until he left for Alaska. After 20 years, I couldn't help but wonder if his inability to pronounce my name was his subtle way of expressing his lack of love for me. I apologize for veering off-topic. Should we continue discussing Patrick, or would you rather hear about my husband's journey to Alaska in 2015?

Let's finish the story about my first meeting with Patrick. Today, as I watched him in the pool, I remembered the early days we started texting. It was the 30th of June when he first texted me he was going for a hike. He later went on a trip to San Diego and even sent a picture of a library. Whenever he was out of the city, I felt as though the city was empty without him. It made me miss him.

Have you ever lived in a city without any family or friends? Have you ever felt that you couldn't breathe without a certain person? Without Patrick, I felt like a lost child in a strange city. Even the coffee shops were dull without him. I would often feel the urge to ask anyone around, "Do you know where Patrick is?"

The day I learned his name was Patrick, I went home and researched its meaning. In Irish, it signifies "nobleman" or "of noble origin." Patrick is also the patron saint of Ireland. I then looked for his pictures online but found images that didn't make sense. I did, however, find images of Saint Patrick. However, when I searched for "Patrick in the pool," I found nothing.

Stay tuned, dear readers. I will continue writing about the pool. I promise it will be an interesting tale. A story of a woman who fell in love with an American man named Patrick simply because he pronounced her name beautifully and correctly. The tale of those who frequented the pool for at least ten years. The story of Tanina, my Ukrainian friend and the snowy woman, and her letters. The narrative of a woman living in Alaska, writing letters to men residing in the desert, especially in Las Vegas and Henderson.