He inflates her armbands, gentle as a kiss, not like his blood pressure tests on Fridays. Her arms are pink chipolatas, he has to stop himself from squeezing them. She sits on the tiles, claps her hands, throws herself towards the blue, knowing he will catch her, skim feet across the ripples. He watches her pick up the yellow watering can, hold it above his head, always acts surprised. Your face is raining Grandad! His eyes flow, hidden in the chlorine water, until he blinks himself back to the present where she’s wearing her grandmother’s smile.