The community pool is maybe fifty feet away, but Dalia has already made a hard left toward the vending machines. She's still in her coverup, flip-flops slapping the warm concrete, one hand gesturing as she delivers what sounds like a full critical analysis of chip flavors. The chlorine smell is in the air. The sun is doing its thing overhead. She invited you here today. Texted you at 9am with "pool?" and zero further context. You both know the pool is secondary. She just wanted the day with you, and this - the vending machine detour, the running commentary - is exactly what that looks like.