“As serious as a coma.”
“Funny, because that’s exactly what I'd put myself in trying to lift this weight.”
“Today, maybe. Not in the future. Have faith in Future You.”
“Future Me,” Marcello muses as he adds another plate to the bar. “I like the idea of what Future Me could be. Fit, buff, strong.”
“More than that. Future You is confident, self-assured, resilient.”
“Hmm,” he says, securing the final plate. “That might be asking a bit too much.”
“Aim high,” I say as I lift my hands and grip the bar again. “Don’t limit yourself.”
“You sound like a middle-aged white man with a podcast.” Marcello chuckles. “Okay, all set.”
“I am a middle-aged white man,” I point out. “No podcast though.”
“I’d listen to a podcast if you had one. You’re a very wise man, Giles.”
I pause before lifting the weight and look up at Marcello. Lying down on the bench like this, not only is he upside down but the angle has me looking at him past the slight curve of his belly. But even with the strange perspective, I can see clearly his syrup-brown eyes and the earnest look on his face. He really does think I’m wise. I don’t know exactly why, but I can’t help but feel incredibly flattered.
At the risk of sounding big-headed, I get a lot of compliments. The way I dress, the way my body is, even the way I style my damn moustache, people like to comment on it. And I like it. To a point. What I value more is when a customer thanks me for my hard work when they look in the mirror and see a suited version of themselves they’re proud of. What I enjoy more is being told by Radia that I’m a good boss, that she really enjoys working with me. And what I apparently really like is being told by Marcello that he thinks I’m wise.
I like it but I don’t know what to say back to it. Should I thank him? Should I bat the compliment away? Should I respond by telling Marcellothe same thing or an alternative accolade? Or is that too much? Am I being too much, again?
Lucky for me I can throw myself into another round of reps, and it’s hard. Harder than I expect. A forty-kilogram jump is not to be scoffed at and I’m counting numbers out loud while also doing more maths in my head. This is pretty close to my personal best, and I am nowhere close to being at my personal best form.
Fuck.
“Seven… eight… nine.” I push through an unholy burn and look up at Marcello. He’s staring back at me, eyes wide with something like wonder.
“Ten… eleven…” My arms start to shake. And hurt. My arms, my chest, my back, everything hurts. “Twelve!”
It feels like a miracle that I make it there and I feel relief wash over me.
“Ah, come on, Giles.” Marcello taps my extended arms. “I know you’ve got one more in you.”
One more.One. If only it was that easy.
“You’ve got this, man!” He bends low, and I can smell him. Sweat and coffee and something else that is a little bit sweet, a little bit aromatic, a little bit like something I want to lick and taste.
Fine. Fuck it. I may not ever get a chance to lick or taste Marcello, but I can sure as fuck impress him with an amount of weight that I haven’t lifted in years.
I lower again and my pectorals roar with the stress of it. My arms tremble as they push, up, literally tremble and I am not ashamed of it – that’s how you make progress – but I am concerned. Concerned I’m not going to make it through this rep and then two more.
“Thirteen,” I pant out when I somehow make it back up to extended arms.
“Yes, Giles! Yes!” Marcello claps his hands together behind my head.
I lower quickly. Too quickly, the control evaporating.
“Fourteen,” I gasp, my voice breaking along with what feels like parts of my body.
“Fuck, yeah!” Marcello exclaims.
I start to push up and grunt, loudly. Loud enough to turn heads, but I’m not checking. Couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m fixated on the space above my head where I am trying to put the bar. Marcello is in my peripheral vision, and he’s saying things, encouraging things, I’m sure, but I don’t hear. There’s a ringing in my ears that drowns out all other sounds and I’m pretty sure I can hear the screams of pain my arms release as I push and push and push but seem to make no progress.
“You need me to—” Marcello begins and I am very aware of how he’s asking if I need him to step in. I’m also very aware of how it’s too late. He’s asking too late, which means any help he does offer me is also going to be too late.
