At six the light turns to honey and the pool stops being a place to swim and becomes a place to sit next to. The tiles are still warm. The striped curtain of the cabana moves once and settles. Somewhere behind the hedge a shell fountain has been running since before anyone here was born, filling a basin nobody you know has ever cleaned.
The pool is not yours. The house is not yours. The water, as the shirt points out, is not yours either. That has never stopped anyone.
The print
The engraving on the back is the fountain and the curtain, hatched in one blue like a plate from a guidebook that was out of date when it was printed. POOL AT SIX in tall serif, and the terms of the loan in small print: return before Monday.
It is the print for the last swim of the day, the one you take in your shirt because getting changed would mean admitting the day is over.
Which colour
Royal blue on white reads at noon, when the pool is loud. Electric blue on black still reads after the sun has gone, when it is quiet and the water is the only thing moving. Take the towel with the same fountain on it. It is the only part of the pool you are allowed to leave with.