FRIDAY IS HOTTER than Satan’s balls. Even parked in the shade behind the diner, my car is about eleventy billion degrees inside. The silver sunshade thing that Wanda bought me has kept the plastic on the dash from melting into a puddle, but hasn’t prevented my little Honda from turning into a dry sauna that smells vaguely of french fries. It’s possible that while I was working someone broke into my car and used it as an air fryer.
Leaning into the car without committing to sitting on the molten fabric seat, I slip the key into the ignition and turn it so I can lower the windows and blast the air conditioner. It should be cool enough to drive in about an hour.
After mere seconds inside of the car-shaped oven, sweat drips down my face and I have boob sweat.
Why does anyone live in this desert?
‘At least it’s a dry heat’ is lying propaganda. Arid or humid, hot is hot.
Heat rises from the asphalt and from the open door of my car, creating shimmering waves in the midday sun.
I could go home, take a cold shower, and plant myself in front of the window air conditioner. Not today, Satan.
Instead, I swing by the apartment, wave at Jim through his screen door, change, and quickly pack a bag for the lake.
Driving east of Roswell, the landscape gently swells and drops in hills and arroyos covered in scrubby bushes. In case I forget I’m in the southwest, a few tumbleweeds cling to barbed wire cattle fencing running alongside the narrow two-lane road.
At the sign for Bottomless Lakes, I turn and follow the winding asphalt through more scrub and a few occupied campsites. Obviously these happy campers don’t care about sleeping among rattlesnakes and scorpions. I’d have to be paid a lot of money to sleep in the desert. I’d accept a slightly lesser amount to sleep outside in someone’s backyard.
The parking lot by the largest lake holds about a dozen parked cars. On the weekends, hundred of people will cram themselves on the manmade beach. That’s why I avoid coming here on Saturdays or Sundays even though I have the days off work.
The name Bottomless Lakes is a lie, but these turquoise pools are deep enough to have fooled the first cowboys who tried to measure their depth with lengths of rope.
If I think about lakes without bottoms, my mind goes straight to the Loch Ness monster or giant alligator-like creatures in the Great Lakes.
Who knows what lives in the depths?
For that reason alone, I’d be justified in keeping to the public pools.
But those are filled with kids—screaming, splashing, peeing in the water, kids.
No, thank you.
I’ll take my chances.
Plus, geologists proved that these lakes are really deep, but not bottomless. More like limestone cenotes, or sinkholes, that filled with fresh water over time.
Parking my chair and towel on the sand, I carry my pink, donut-shaped floatie to the water’s edge. At first touch, the chill of the water sends goosebumps along my heated skin. My body is stuck in a moment of contrast between hot and cold, wet and dry.
When the water hits my knees, I half-dive, half-belly flop into the lake. As cool relief washes over me, I exhale and flip onto my back for a few seconds before submerging my whole body again. Surfacing, I exhale and revel in how quickly the overheated, sticky feeling of the day washes away.
Swimming the breast stroke, I head straight for the far side.
I plan to swim a few laps, then come back for the inflatable and float for a while.
A few yards ahead of me lies a row of buoys, marking the edge of the designated swim area. During the week, there isn’t a lifeguard on duty. Visitors are supposed to honor the random border between safety and danger.
I dunk my head into the cool water and glide beneath the boundary line.
’Cause I’m a rebel.
With steady strokes, I swim out to the middle of the lake. This is where the freshwater shark or lake monster would be enticed by my fluttering legs to leave the safety of its underwater den, speed toward the surface, and either chomp me to bits or swallow me whole. At some later point, someone might notice the unattended donut or a ranger might discover my car parked alone in the lot as dusk approaches and the park closes.
By then it will be too late for me.
Treading water, I wait for the attack to come. When it doesn’t, I decide to swim back to shore.
After taunting death for another two laps, I scoop up my donut and float in the safety of the designated swim area.
With my head dipped over the edge of the floatie, my hair skims the surface behind me while my butt and feet hang out in the water. Sunshine warms my face and chest, arms, and the tops of my thighs. The heat dries the droplets of water on my skin.
Yawning, I close my eyes against the bright glare of sunlight reflecting on the lake’s surface.
In the background, I hear a few kids splashing in the water near the shore. A hawk whistles overhead, probably contemplating if he can carry off one of the smaller toddlers.
Eyes closed, I drift around the swim area, buffeted by a faint breeze that pulls small waves along the lake’s surface.
All week I’ve watched Boone for more napkin doodling. He’s been sitting at the counter and we chat while he eats breakfast. No more doodles, but definitely more flirting.
I still can’t find a source for the drawing in my dad’s book. Nothing on the internet matches exactly and my brain hurts from reading too many articles involving physics.
When I feel my donut bump against a buoy, I spin myself and kick my legs to propel myself away.
The sound of kids splashing and yelling fades. I yawn again, feeling sleep tugging at me in the warmth of the sun.
Safe in my pink donut, I give in to the sleepiness. A short nap is the best idea I’ve had since deciding to come swimming.