Rolling to my side, I pull my phone from my pocket, and open Grindr. Maybe after O’Reilly’s, I can find someone to appreciate me a little.
Or a lot.
Good lord, wasIlike this?I’m beginning to think I’ve made a terrible mistake. Scratch that. I know I have made a terrible mistake.
My life is stressful enough as it is. These men. These … boys … are going to break me. And it’s not because they’re living out my dream. Not at all.
It’s because, as their coach described on day one. They’re morons.
“Pilates. You want us to do Pilates?” Judging by their sulky, slack jawed expressions, you’d think I’d asked them to skate on their faces while naked. Actually, they’d probably enjoy that.
“Pilates works every muscle in your body. Strengthens your core. Increases your pulmonary function … Lung capac—how you breathe,” I add, dumbing it down after they stare back at me blankly. “Think of what that could do for your game.”
“Screw our games, imagine sex!” They rise as one, cheering and high five-ing Evan Drummond as though he just scored a hat trick instead of making a lame-ass gag. I should probably reprimand him. Try and gain some kind of control, but his observation seems to have garnered the team’s interest. Several players have even sat. Yes it’s on the table or floor, not a chair, but it’s something.
“You can do all that with Pilates?” Evan doubles down. “I thought it was a girlie thing … like Zumba.”
“Zumba is killer,” inserts Larsson. “I went to a class with my sister and nearly died.” And now they’ve moved onto Zumba and hot girl outfits worn to Zumba.
For fuck’s sake.
Not for the first time today, I long for the century old equipment and musty carpets of the practice I began my physio training within. I had a future there. Regular patients, predictable hours that left me time to indulge my secret hobby of writing Spider-Man/Hulk fan fiction. But then I remember the scandal that saw it shut its doors after thirty years. My ever compounding student loan my brother, and the day Faith and I moved back into our parents house to care for him, then promptly blink those memories away.
What an absolute clusterfuck of a day.Weary, bitter, hungry beyond belief, I unlock my dungeon door, plod my way towards the too-small sofa and flop myself onto the well worn cushion.
Clutching my chest, I wonder how I got here. Not here as in a dank basement, butheremetaphorically. I’m too young to hoard so many regrets this close to my heart. Too old to be doing so with my dad’s civil war reenactment costume hanging from the makeshift clothesline on my ceiling. It can’t be healthy, living like this. So knotted up that I can’t sit straight.
Now that I think of it, I have been sweating a lot lately. Especially at night. Lots of chest pain too. I’ve been putting it down to a poor diet and indigestion, but maybe it’s more. Maybe I’m one bean burrito with extra jalapenos away from full blown heart disease.
Maybe I should call Doctor Lappin?
Shit, too late. Here comes the sweat.
Everything’s gone black.
Yup. I’m definitely dying.
I don’t think I’m going to make it.
A harsh meow makes my eyes pop to find Cleo sitting on the foot on my bed.
Oh. Icansee. So, maybe not dead … yet.
As you might expect a half-deaf thirteen-year-old sphinx cat with diabetes and a traditionally female name would do, Cleo considers me with his usual utter contempt. After a heady, uncomfortable stare off, I break—he wins and promptly decidesagainstblessing me with any affection and proceeds to lick his ass.
Shame. I could have done with the cuddles today. Lucky I’ll get plenty from Dyl.
Speaking of which. Pushing off the couch, I climb the stairs, push the door that sticks open with my shoulder, and enter the kitchen.
“Manny? Dyl, are you here?”
When there’s no reply, I make my way into the lounge, rubbing self-comforting circles into my chest. Finding it empty, I circle back and head for the wine rack tucked beside the fridge. That’s when I spot a note on the counter.
Hi Faith & Jamie. We’ve had a rough afternoon, so we decided to go to the beach and chill for a bit. Should be back before dinner—we made a lasagna, it’s in the fridge. If we’re not back and you’re hungry, just pop it in the oven to reheat.
See you soon,
Manny & Dyl
