Mr. Clean

He was tall, muscular, and bald. He looked like Mr. Clean. He kept his fins and pool buoy in a black mesh bag at the front of his lane. He would place his Rolex on deck next to the bag as if daring someone to swipe it.

He wasn't much of a swimmer. He preferred lifting weights, sculpting his abs. He spent time on the pool deck posing, scanning the water looking for a female audience. He'd finally enter the water and discretely remove his baggy outer bathing suit, revealing the tight one.

He'd swim on his back, kicking long blue fins, not moving his arms. He'd switch to yellow short fins for no particular reason. Perhaps to appear as if he knew something about swimming. The pool buoy was merely a prop.

The real reason he came to the pool was to hunt women, married women. He divorced at 62. Meeting women now was like high-school dating all over again, only worse. Because he was actually terrified of people. Of women. Deep down he was really a child, terrified of his brutal asshole father.

He carried a gun. Professionally, of course, as part of his employment. But still, the only way he could have total control in social settings was to have that gun nearby. He watched every documentary on serial killers he could find. That was his passion. His favorite killer was the guy who kept his victims' body parts in a freezer.

His ex-wife had finally thrown him out of the house. She found out that he'd been depriving the dog of food. "He's being disobedient!" yelled Mr. Clean. "He didn't bring me my slippers! He doesn't deserve food!"

"That's it!" his wife said. "We're done here! Get out now!" she hollered. "You have the truck. I keep the dog. And the house. And I'm getting a restraining order."

"Whaaat?" he yelled back, "just because I kept the damn dog from his damn supper?"

"That's right," she said without raising her voice. And that was that.