Fantasy Girlfriend Diary | If Saika Kawakita Were a Swim Coach

The smell of chlorine clung to her hair.

Monday night, 9 p.m. In the parking lot of the nearest convenience store to her school, we sat side by side against a guardrail, sharing a carbonated ice pop. She’d texted “just ten minutes” thirty minutes earlier, and I’d grabbed only my wallet and keys before leaving. She was still in her track suit, a sports towel draped around her neck. The asphalt still held the day’s heat, and in the distance, under a street lamp, a single cicada was singing the wrong hour.

“Sorry. This whole week might be like this.”

“I know.”

The tournament was less than two weeks away. Morning practice starting at 6:30, afternoon practice until dark. She’d need to send all her students home, lock up the pool, write the logbook—and this was still the time we met. Her track suit knees bore the fading water mark of dried chlorine. The imprint of her kneeling poolside, watching form again and again.

She wiped her neck with the edge of the towel. Though she’d showered, each wipe seemed to concentrate the chlorine smell. Where her wrist held the ice pop, the watch had left the only pale stripe of skin. At her neck, where the whistle cord had rested, a thin line of pale skin had escaped the sun. A mark that wasn’t there two weeks ago. Summer was inscribing the shape of her work onto her body.

“If you win, you get ten more minutes.”

She said this and finished the pop completely before checking the stick for a prize message. No luck, she said briefly, and laughed. She stood and dusted off the seat of her track suit. With her on her feet, she suddenly seemed taller. From above, looking down at me still sitting, she said:

“After the tournament, we’ll really see each other.”

She pulled her bike from the rack and raised one hand, coasting down the slope. I stayed on the guardrail until her red taillight blinked out of sight. The melted ice still clung to my fingertips.

---

Two nights later. The phone rang just before midnight.

“You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Her voice was half-blurred at the edges. She’d just gotten out of the bath, and occasionally the hair dryer noise cut through her words. Today was water-quality testing day, she said. She’d measured the pool’s residual chlorine, written the numbers in the logbook. If it fell below standard, she couldn’t let students in, so she’d add more chemicals, wait, and measure again. And here I’m not even a science teacher, she laughed.

Entry deadline was tomorrow. She’d finished inputting all the team members’ personal bests into the registration system. She still hadn’t decided on the medley relay order. Whether to move the backstroke girl to freestyle. As she talked, her voice gradually sank deeper into her pillow.

“But today…”

Suddenly, her voice warmed.

“One of the second-year students hit a personal best in breaststroke. In practice, but still. I yelled before she even touched the wall.”

She double-checked the stopwatch, and her voice had come out before the girl’s face even cleared the touch pad. When she talked about that moment, her voice returned to her daytime face.

“That’s not being a teacher, that’s being a fan.”

“That’s fine. The moment someone gets faster—it’s really just one instant. I don’t want to miss it.”

Faint humming came through the phone. She was unconsciously tracing the chorus of some song while blow-drying her hair. I didn’t know the name, but the melody was familiar. She didn’t realize she was singing. I didn’t mention it. If I did, she’d stop.

I told her to sleep. Just five more minutes, she said. Five minutes stretched to twenty. After we hung up, only the low hum of the air conditioning remained in my room.

---

Friday of that week, we were supposed to meet.

A text at 7 p.m.: Sorry, a parent call is taking forever, might not work today. The brevity told me how exhausted she was. I texted back not to worry. It took thirty minutes before she read it, and her reply was just a stamp.

I was washing my face when I noticed the moisturizer on the shelf beside the mirror. A large white container she’d left the morning after she’d stayed over. Chlorine strips the skin dry, she’d said. Even on days she didn’t go near the pool, she’d apply this several times. The backs of her hands, her elbows, her neck. The way she worked it in was always ritualistic, deliberate.

I opened the lid. It was supposed to be unscented, but it seemed to carry her smell. I knew it was my imagination, but I left it open anyway for a moment.

I turned on the TV. At the top of the recorded list sat two movies she’d asked me to record last month, still unwatched. One was a new film by a director she’d said she’d seen three times already. The night we recorded it, she’d announced: “We’re watching this together, for sure.” I didn’t delete it. I just turned off the TV.

In the fridge, two cans of beer she’d placed there with the declaration “we’ll drink these after the tournament” sat cooling in the door pocket. Ten days had passed without anyone touching them.

---

Saturday morning, I woke to a text. Is there a brown envelope on the shoe rack by the door? The one with tournament documents? Yeah, there is. After I answered, she sent a prayer stamp, then: Could you bring it to school this morning…?

I used my spare key to her apartment to retrieve the envelope and headed to her high school, three train stops away.

I could hear it before the main gate. The sharp chirp of a whistle. Water splashing. A voice through a megaphone. The pool was behind the school building, enclosed by green fencing and a backstop net. Before I pressed the intercom at the service entrance, I glimpsed inside through a gap in the fence.

She stood in the center of the pool deck.

Black shorts and a polo shirt. Two stopwatches hung from her neck, a megaphone in her right hand. Students lined the pool edge, waiting for her signal. Four more, fifty-meter hard sets. The whistle chirped once, eight swimmers launched in unison, and the surface fractured.

She moved along the deck in pace with the swimmers, eyes fixed on the stopwatch. She called out times to each student who touched the wall, always adding a comment after each number. Good. Your kicks are dropping. You’re holding your breath too long. Let the rhythm flow.

One student stopped at the lane edge with a question. She set down the megaphone and demonstrated, arms sweeping in wide circles. Slow, outside the water, twice. She paused with her elbows at shoulder height. Here, she seemed to say. The swimmers in the pool surfaced just enough to watch, their wet faces all turning the same direction. When she stopped and nodded with her chin, the student pushed off and began retracing the exact arc she’d shown.

In the corner of the deck, kickboards were stacked by color, their worn edges frayed white. A rope rewind apparatus, a deck brush, red and yellow rescue tubes. Each tool had its place, and every student returned them there after use.

Beside the lifeguard stand sat a sports towel folded neatly, its pattern showing cute round-eared characters. Among all the orderly equipment, it was instantly recognizable as hers. Next to it, on a tripod, stood a device like a thermometer. She’d check it occasionally, then call out: break, get water, find some shade. All the students would exit the pool. She’d scan each face in order, reading their condition.

What struck me was how the students behaved. During the break, three boys clustered around her, saying something. Each time she answered, they laughed. One asked something clearly absurd, and when she mimicked raising the megaphone, all three scattered like water spray. Even from outside the fence, I could read those boys’ eyes. Half trust, half something else.

When I pressed the intercom, she jogged over to the service gate.

“Sorry! Thanks for coming.”

Sunglasses pushed up into her hair. The smell of sweat and sunscreen. Through the gate, she counted the envelope’s contents with one finger and sighed, saying she couldn’t have taken the students without it. A voice called from the pool—sensei! She turned and answered—yeah! Then she faced me again and, for just a moment, let her voice drop.

“I’ll call tonight.”

The gate closed. She jogged back, and as she picked up the megaphone mid-stride, the coach’s face returned. Alright, let’s go. Kick drills.

On the train home, I could still feel the weight of the envelope in my palm. Inside those brown sheets were fourteen names and all the times she’d entered late into the night.

---

The next week, Tuesday. Two days before the tournament, I got a text: Come make dinner. Followed by: I think I’m done for today.

Inside with the spare key, the apartment was less messy than I’d expected. But papers had accumulated in layers on the low table. Photocopies of tournament guidelines, entry lists, bracket and lane assignments. Three highlighters with their caps off, rolled in different directions. She sat on the floor against the wall, staring at the documents. I said welcome home, then caught myself and laughed.

I boiled noodles and piled on pork and condiments. She ate well. You can’t make it through summer without eating, she said, holding the sauce bowl in both hands. It’s all about not holding back.

When she finished, she went back to the documents. Tracing the bracket with her finger, she began reading off the team members’ names in order. She needed every detail—every student in every heat and lane—memorized. She’d miss announcements on race day, she said.

“All of them?”

“All fourteen.”

I listened while washing up. Partway through, her voice caught on one name. She read it again slowly. What’s wrong? I asked. This one, she said. Freshman year, she could only do twenty-five meters with her feet touching bottom. This year, relay member. Her finger traced that name on the sheet, back and forth.

When she finished, the room went quiet. I turned around to find her lying back with the guidebook across her chest, staring at the ceiling.

“The third-years. This is their last one, you know.”

I stopped the water.

“Win or lose, they retire. I agonized over the relay order until the end. Should I prioritize the third-years or go with their times?”

“What did you choose?”

“Times. That’s the best chance to get them to win.”

She sat up and capped the highlighter. At tomorrow’s final meeting, I’m going to tell them: it’s fine if you fail. Is that irresponsible? She looked at me. You don’t think that, do you—irresponsible? When I said no, she answered immediately: I don’t either. I’ve watched all two and a half years of these kids’ lives.

After her shower, she sat at the edge of the sofa and began applying moisturizer. Across the backs of her hands, between each finger, her elbows, her neck. Her upper arms bore a sharp tan line, dark on one side and pale on the other. Her hand paused at her neck, and she suddenly said:

“I wonder how the students see me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Stern or lenient. I think about it sometimes. The face I wear on the pool deck—I don’t think I even know what it looks like.”

Before I could answer, she laughed and closed the jar.

As I was putting on my shoes at the door, I heard humming from the kitchen. A fragmented melody mixed with the sound of water rinsing glasses. The same song from the phone call before. I mentioned she liked that one. Her hands stilled. She turned, looking a bit flustered.

“As a kid, I hated singing. Didn’t like my own voice. Then suddenly as an adult I started loving it. Now I really do.”

“You should sing in front of the students.”

“Never.”

No hesitation. After the door closed, walking down the apartment hallway, I was the one carrying that melody along.

---

The tournament’s first day was Thursday. I went to work like normal.

A text came at lunch. Men’s medley made finals!!! Three exclamation marks. Her texts usually ended with periods.

She called after 8 p.m. Background noise—the platform of a train station.

“They placed sixth in the finals.”

I couldn’t tell from her voice whether this was good or bitter. When I said nothing, she went on:

“The third-year went all-out on the baton exchange. Pushed it right to the edge. The courage to dive at that moment—it takes guts. One moment too early and the whole relay’s disqualified.”

She talked fast about the baton exchange. How if you push off the platform before the incoming swimmer touches the wall, the entire relay is disqualified instantly. How they stood poolside with clasped hands waiting for the scoreboard to light up.

“And they set a personal best. All four of them. Sixth place, but no regrets.”

“Did you cry?”

“No.”

A pause. The sound of a train pulling into the station.

”…Maybe a little. Luckily I had my sunglasses on.”

Individual events tomorrow. You need to sleep, she said, but then let a train pass and kept talking. How she’d reapplied sunscreen three times today. How her hands still stung. How she’d spend forever in the bath working lotion into every inch. Just before hanging up, she remembered to add:

“Tomorrow when it’s over, let’s drink. The beer in the fridge—is it still there?”

“It is. Been cold for over ten days.”

“Perfect.”

After we hung up, I opened the fridge and shifted the beer cans forward in the door. Then I turned off the light.

---

The final night, we met at a yakitori place near the station.

I arrived first and sat at the counter. When the door slid open, she walked in wearing regular clothes for the first time in two weeks. White shirt, jeans. Her tanned arms bore only the stripe where her watch had been, sharp under the restaurant lights. She dropped onto the stool beside me with a sigh. Chairs are amazing, she said.

Two draft beers arrived. The mugs clinked together. She took a long first drink, set down her glass, and covered her face with both hands.

“It’s over…”

Her voice came muffled through her fingers. When she lowered her hands, exhaustion hung dark beneath her eyes, but her face was bright.

She told me the results in order. Two students had made individual finals. More personal bests today. All the third-years retired after today’s competitions. After the closing ceremony, they’d stood in a circle in front of the locker room and each said something.

“The captain said: I’m glad you were our coach. It’s like a script, you know. Someone says it every year. I know that, but…”

She reached for a skewer, bit into it, swallowed, and continued:

“This year it landed.”

Chicken hearts, leeks and chicken, chicken with shiso and ume. She ate well and drank well. By the middle of her second beer, she started doing impressions. The one who always does three squats before diving. The one who brings two pairs of goggles and forgets both. Her hands moved as she talked, her shoulders too, sometimes even her voice. She carried each student in her body.

Then she pulled out her phone and turned it toward me. A group photo from the steps outside the venue. Everyone sun-darkened to the same shade, a front-row student waving a towel like a flag. She stood in the center, a full head taller than everyone. Even crouching, she said, laughing at herself. Before she turned the screen back, she held the photo up once more, just looking at it.

“You talk about this happily.”

“Because it’s fun. I can see the moment they get faster, you know? There are days when a stroke just suddenly clicks. The look on their face—pure surprise. Once you’ve seen that, you can’t quit this job.”

She didn’t order a third beer. Starting tomorrow: cleanup, updating the logbook, cleaning the club room, she said, switching to oolong tea. While she was at it, she pulled a small tube from her bag and squeezed some onto the back of her hand. The joints of her fingers working it in had gone slightly red over the past two weeks. Hands exposed all day to water, chlorine, sun. When she finished, she applied a little to the back of my hand too and said, there. Among the smell of grilled chicken, that one spot held no scent at all.

Still, the conversation didn’t stop. Summer training camp plans. Who’d be the new team captain. September’s rookie tournament.

“Swimming just keeps going.”

“It does. But next week is completely off. I even got another teacher to cover pool duty.”

Outside, the night breeze still held traces of the day’s heat. She walked slowly toward the station. It was the first time in two weeks I’d seen her move like that—not hurrying.

At a red light, her hand brushed mine. Our fingers linked. The palm that had held cold beer all night was warm.

“Sorry about the two weeks.”

“Every year, right?”

“Every single year.”

She kept looking ahead, swinging our linked hands gently.

“But every year, I come back to you.”

The light turned green. Her stride was as wide as ever, so my pace quickened just to keep up with our linked hands. Crossing the crosswalk, she stepped on each white line in order.

---

Sunday morning, neither of us woke until 9.

I woke first and was drinking water in the kitchen when she emerged from the bedroom, her hair half-wet. She’d showered this morning. It’s a habit, she said. I can’t start the day without water. She turned on the washing machine.

On the balcony, we hung our laundry side by side. Polo shirts. Shorts. That towel with the round-eared character. The whistle—just the cord—hooked at the end of the drying rack.

“Today I want to watch movies. Both of them back-to-back. I’ve been putting it off long enough.”

She said this with a clothespin between her teeth. You’ll fall asleep, I said. I won’t, she answered seriously. And if I do, wake me up.

She shook out the last towel and hung it. Beyond the balcony railing, the Sunday neighborhood was still quiet. Somewhere, a TV played. In the distance, a child’s voice—at the pool, it sounded like.

When she finished hanging everything, she stretched. The tan line on her upper arms seemed slightly less sharp in the morning light. Summer was beginning to release its grip on her skin.

She started humming. That song again.

The laundry billowed in the wind all at once.

Story Notes

I didn’t write where those boys were looking through the fence. Everything I didn’t write is in this one film.

The theme of this fantasy is “the enigmatic swim coach who captivates students.” It’s from when Saika Kawakita was credited under a different name. Polo shirt, whistle, pool deck—she stands on screen in the exact uniform I wrote. But the direction is reversed. My narrator’s girlfriend is a coach who protects her students. The coach in this film is aware of their gaze and uses it.

The question she asked while applying moisturizer—“I wonder how the students see me”—this film spends two hours answering it. A face synonymous with transparency transforms into someone entirely different with a single look toward her students. With Saika Kawakita, what “enigmatic charm” means becomes clear on screen before it can be explained. There’s a sample video, so even just the first few seconds of her in a competitive swimsuit is worth watching. You’ll probably feel a bit confused by the gap between the coach in the story and the one on screen. That confusion is the entrance to this film.

Note: Product information is displayed in Japanese.