“Well, let me know if you change your mind.”
“I will,” I say and again it doesn't feel like I'm saying it for my benefit.
“And P.S., you have great calves too,” His gaze drops again and takes its sweet time to come back up my body. “Greateverythingfrom what I can see.”
And then he turns – almost pirouettes, in fact – and waltzes away back to the cardio section of the gym, leaving me with nothing but my red cheeks and the most lacklustre quarter-chub of an erection.
“Not worth it," I tell myself in the lowest whisper. “Not worth falling into that trap again. Not when it makes you... feel so shit.”
I blink away that thought, and in many ways the whole interaction with Tony and reach for the cable's handles and assume my position for some overhead tricep extensions. I've kept the weight relatively low as I'm going more for mobility and warmth than exertion and I'm quickly blasting through my reps, breathing deeply and counting under my breath again.
I keep my eyes fixed on an indeterminable point on the floor ahead of me for the first two sets of twelve and then as I start my last set, I look up. I don't know why my eyes look in the mirror's reflection towards the cardio section at the back of the room but they do.
Located in a vast basement of an office block just a couple of streets away from my tailors, the gym is dimly lit with mirrors, black floors andmostly black and silver equipment. But there’s just enough light to look around and see other people, even at the back where all the cardiovascular machines stand in long rows. Am I looking for Tony? Am I thinking about changing my mind? Am I really that keen to get my dick wet again after what, little more than six months?
But it's not Tony I see when I start looking around the treadmills. It's Marcello, the manager of the Italian café that makes the best chocolate croissants within a one-mile radius. I know this because I've done extensive research, on cheat days. I also drink one of their coffees every single day thanks to my employee Radia having a year-long crush on one of the other workers at the café, Chloe. At least they're finally dating so I sometimes get my extra hot almond latte and a croissant for free these days.
I rarely go in there much myself on account of Radia insisting on doing so for either a quick glance at the objection of her affection or more recently for a ten-minute conversation and possibly a snog or two. On the occasions I have done our coffee run, I've always got on with Marcello. Which is why, when his eyes catch mine in the reflection, I nod and smile at him.
He looks away. As quickly as if someone called his name from the opposite direction but there is nobody doing so. He just turns his head and then his whole body, and he walks away into the furthest corner of the gym and out of the mirror's reflection.
As I'm on my last set, I push past twelve, then fifteen and then even beyond eighteen and stop at twenty-one, all the while wondering what exactly that was.
Maybe he didn't see me? Maybe he didn't recognise me? Maybe it wasn't Marcello but somebody who has his height – six foot two at a guess – his dark eyes and brown hair pulled into a bun on top of his head? Maybe it’s some other man who has his perma-tan olive skin and that cute pot belly that makes me wonder how soft it would be to lay my head on?I’m aware this is a weird thing to think about a vague associate's stomach, but it's better than wondering whether the thick hair on his arms stretches out over his chest and yes, that pillow of a belly. At least I've never wondered about that. Much.
What can I say? Marcello is an attractive man. An attractive man who has just run away from me.
Or maybe I got that wrong. Maybe I should just be a mature adult and go and properly approach him and say hello. I've never seen him at the gym before. Maybe he needs some help.
I wipe down the machine with three deliberate swipes of my cloth and then make my way into the cardio section of the gym. I see Marcello – and yes, it's definitely Marcello – on one of the rowing machines wearing an almost pained expression of concentration although he's barely breaking a sweat as he pulls back on the machine.
Just as his head lifts and he catches my eye again, I lift my hand to wave and open my mouth to speak. But it's not my voice I hear next.
“Changed your mind?” Tony bounces into view in front of me.
“Tony, hi, yeah, no, not exactly.” I trip over my words.
“Then what are you doing in the CV section of the gym.” Once again, his gaze dips down my body. “Those quads aren't exactly elliptical machine thighs.”
I feel heat rush to my cheeks and I really hope he doesn't take my blush to be anything other than what it is. Awkward embarrassment.
“I thought I saw someone I knew,” I say and I look around Tony to locate Marcello again but the rowing machine he was on is now vacant and he's nowhere to be seen.
Tony folds his arms. “You must know everyone here. You practically live here.”
A few years ago, this kind of comment would have felt something like a compliment. To be recognised for my commitment, for my consistency, to be noticed. But today it makes my shoulders sink. It feels... sad. Becausesome days I wonder if the only reason I get out of bed in the morning is to work and to work out.
I'm not ashamed of that, but I can't help but wonder if there's more to life, if there's something I'm missing.
I have no idea what that thing is but I'm almost certain I'm not going to find it by swapping numbers with Tony, who is still eye-fucking me as I finally respond.
“Well, I'm going to get back to my reps,” I say and before he can say anything else, I turn and head back to the weights. As sad as it may be, at least the weights have never let me down.
Chapter Three
Marcello
What the fuck is wrong with me? I ask myself, and not for the first time, as I storm out of the gym's double doors and into the heat of a warm July day. I love summer and spend most of the endless winter months questioning my reasons for living in the UK rather than Sardinia where most of my extended family are, but even I find summers in central London occasionally oppressive and unnecessarily sweaty. Or maybe that's just the hot heat of feeling foolish flushing my cheeks and the back of my neck.
