Rutherford Kensington, of the Kensington Kensingtons was off for a swim. In his head Rutherford was never late to a thing because he was always precisely on time, in that, when picturing his place in the universe, Rutherford is always exactly where he says he is, no sooner or later than he need be there. Thus before the ambulance, before the whistle, before purchasing pre-swim crisps, before even walking into the Leisure Centre where he certainly had all the time in the world to disrobe and climb into his swimmers, in Rutherford’s mind, every step was a step towards the cinderblock, which was meant to break its fall on his face. The woman who gave Rutherford reason to pause, as he ogled her swinging arms while she strutted by, placed him directly in the path of the falling cement brick from the much-in-need-of-repair facade of the unseasonably humid and particularly chlorinated lap pool at precisely the time he was meant to be there. And that is why, as soon as he is out of this facial cast, and out of this sterile hospital room, where all the jello is green and all the juice is apple, he will find her, and tell her they were meant to meet one another, just as a cinderblock was meant to meet his face.