He laid his head back on the burnt-orange tiles, his eyes closed and his head neck deep in the warm, effervescent water. He has dark curly hair that bounces around his head and ears carelessly, smooth white skin interrupted only by his faintly grown out mustache and goatee. I couldn’t help but to imagine him as a rich drug lord, lounging in his private pool somewhere in South America. All he needed was a gold neck chain and the picture was complete. I leaned into him and whispered my daydream fantasy into his ear. The fictional imagination was scoffed off by a quiet chuckle; his eyes not concerned enough to open. I quieted the illusive musing and fixed my gaze on the bather next to us.
He was an older gentleman, seated beside a middle-aged woman (they would prove their romantic status as they exited the pool; he touching her intimately, possessively, his hand at her hip). He had white, thinning hair, and a slender gold chain encircling his neck. I immediately felt embarrassed by my earlier story, its very centerpiece a gold neck chain, and its protagonist a drug dealer. I trusted that the jets were loud enough that I was not overheard, and averted my gaze.