I had taken Chelsea swimming last weekend and as I sat somewhere reading my novel - 'All That Man Is' (and a pretty good read too) - and peering over it from time to time to watch her water exploits ('Tony, see how I'm diving under the water!'), I could not help noticing a couple seated opposite my umbrella table.
The man was dark and wearing a T-shirt and those shorts beloved of certain gentlemen in their mid 40s that show off calves that often descend into feet that rest on sandals. The woman with him, a lady in her mid-30s, had a sun hat on, shades on and a sun dress to suit the scorching weather. They must have been man and wife - because they were not talking.
The man's entire head was buried behind the newspaper (The Standard on Sunday, I'm happy to say) while the woman was scrolling on her phone (WhatsApp?) behind her impenetrable sun glasses, an occasional tiny wrinkle of lip passing for a smile.
Now, do not get me wrong. This couple did not look like two folks who had just quarrelled. The man did not have that stone face, or the woman that sullen look that often dogs the faces of a couple that has just had a spat. Nor did they look bored with one another. They just looked like strangers who have nothing to say to each other.
It got me thinking how a man and woman can become distant across the years. The man looked like the kind of fellow who may just have a 'yellow' salad on the side. Maybe he goes to the place he has rented her on Fridays and stays there till late, getting to his own house just before midnight like Cinderella.
On Saturdays, he wakes up to read ALL the week's papers and shortly after lunch, blows out of the house to go hang out with his old friends in a club as they network and maybe watch the football until nightfall.
He gets to his house late and when he wakes up hung overed the next morning, madam has gone to church with the kids. He will go pick her and them up at 1pm, take them to a pizzeria for Sunday lunch then bring them for swimming where he will read the Sunday papers as his wife scrolls through her smart-phone with the odd smile.
Not that she sat her butt on the couch watching the series on DVD all weekend. Fridays are her wine nights with her old clique of 'girls' where they gossip and trip. On Saturdays, she always has a baby shower, or a wedding, or a chama to go to.
Weekdays are very early, and then late evening days - which means with the kids in the pool, this is the ONLY quality time she really has with the acquaintance over there. But he is reading the goddarn paper! So she goes on WhatsApp. Then they go home.
'Tyrone! Ryan!' she shouted - and two boys of about five and seven came out of the pool. The man put down the paper - and all four were suddenly together, looking close. Maybe I was wrong! Maybe he just loved his Sunday afternoon pool time with the newspaper.
'Tooonyyy, see me,' Chelsea yelled. 'Me I can not even go down (drown).'
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